Political Soundbites
by heartsways
Summary: Based on a prompt "Swan Queen, drunk calling the wrong number", I came up with the following: Regina's a Senator, Emma's a journalist, Scotch is a truth serum...sort of. Political AU.
1. Chapter 1 - ad hominem

Chapter 1: Ad hominem

Emma is ushered into Senator Mills' office by a squeaky-clean, too-young intern wearing a suit that looks like something left over from graduation. She feels her boots sink into the plush, thick rug on the hardwood floor and frowns a little, looking around the room that's far too big for an office and is decked out with enough thick pile rugs, mahogany furniture and distinctly ugly portraits to make it appear like some stuffy parlor rather than the hub of political decision-making.

The intern bobs his head up and down, avoiding direct eye contact with the Senator and backs away like an obsequious courtier, closing the office door quietly behind him. And rightly so, Emma thinks, walking across the office towards the desk, because Regina Mills is sitting stiffly on her wing-backed leather chair like it's a throne and she's the ruler of all she surveys. She gestures with a somewhat dismissive hand towards the chair on the opposite side of her desk and Emma sinks into it without a word, mostly because she's trying very hard to stifle a nervous laugh. This is, after all, pretty ridiculous and she has the upper hand, so it's hard not to feel somewhat smug.

Regina turns back to the paperwork laid out on her desk, perusing it with an air of concentration that has her staring hard through the tortoiseshell glasses perched on the end of her nose. Now Emma _does_ chuckle because she's seen this power play used before and can imagine that for someone made of less sterner stuff, it might be intimidating. But Emma merely settles herself into the chair, stretching out her legs in front of her and folding her arms over her chest as Regina glances up at her, mouth pursing in what seems like irritation.

"Miss Swan," Regina says, clearing her throat and removing her glasses, the only sign of her agitation evident in the way her fingers toy with them, "thank you for coming."

"Not a problem," Emma grins widely and shrugs. "I'm assuming that this is all off the record, though?"

Regina smiles tightly and gives a curt nod. "You assume correctly."

"Pity," Emma hums, and takes wicked pleasure in the momentary widening of Regina's eyes. Then she unfolds her arms and waves a hand in the air. "Seriously," she adds, "you don't have to worry. I **can** respect privacy when I need to, you know."

"Something I never would have guessed from the general tone of your column," Regina admonishes in a hard, almost resentful voice.

"The public have a right to know how their tax dollars are being spent, Senator," Emma asserts.

"Since when has a tawdry expose of the private lives of Senators had anything to do with tax dollars?" Regina asks, clasping her hands together on the desk and leaning over it, eyes glinting dangerously.

"Since those tax dollars paid for the houses they live in, the cars they drive, the parties they throw, or other, more questionable practices." Emma sits up in the chair and meets Regina's eyes, offering a challenge of her own. Regina smiles – that practiced, politician's smile – and holds Emma's gaze a second longer than absolutely necessary. Then she lets out a tiny breath and leans back in her chair.

"I'm sure your readers – assuming the people who buy your newspaper can **actually** read – would love to hear of the scurrilous behavior of a United States Senator," Regina begins smoothly, the smile never leaving her lips, "but how does that benefit the system or the people within it?"

Emma laughs, loud and deep. "Depends what the behavior is, doesn't it, Senator Mills? And I have to ask – is this your way of apologizing for calling me at 2am drunk off your ass on chardonnay? Because if it is, it sucks, quite frankly."

Regina's smile fades for an instant and she makes a tiny sound in her throat that is both acceptance and annoyance, steepling her fingers in front of her face as she eyes Emma carefully over the desk. There's always been something of a frisson between them, ever since she was a Congresswoman and Emma was a cub reporter, enthusiastic far beyond her abilities and armed with a boldness that she still finds difficult to keep in check.

They've sparred and parried over the years enough to have something resembling a working relationship. But there's been no trust. Regina learned early on in her career that trusting a journalist was tantamount to political suicide, and Emma's made it clear on several occasions that she trusts Regina about as far as she can throw her.

So it's somewhat confusing that it was Emma's number Regina called two nights ago. Even more so that she doesn't remember dialing it and can't quite remember what instigated the call in the first place. The only thing she _can_ remember is that she was utterly, horribly drunk after yet another exhausting day followed by yet another lonely night.

"It was Scotch, actually," Regina finally says, and Emma rolls her eyes a little at the inferred snobbery and the overly polite correction. "A rather fine single malt, aged forty years and, before you make another scathing comment about who pays for it, **I** did. From money that's **mine**, that **I** earned and that I am allowed to spend in whatever way I see fit."

"Okay." Emma reaches up and runs a hand through her hair. "Not that you have to justify it to me but – "

"Apparently I do," Regina cuts in hotly.

"Yeah, okay," Emma sighs, holding up a hand in mock defeat, "but that still doesn't explain why you were sobbing on the line with me the other night."

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she can see alarm written across Regina's features. Usually it would be a sign of victory – a chance for Emma to notch up a point on the ever-expanding scoreboard that seems to exist between her and Regina. But it doesn't give her any pleasure to see it now, and it certainly doesn't assuage the nagging feeling that Regina called _her_ for a reason.

"You know I don't remember any of that," Regina tells Emma, but her voice wavers a little and they both know that somewhere in the depths of Regina's memory, she does.

"Fine," Emma sighs begrudgingly, "but **you** know that in those sorts of situations, people usually call their friends."

"I'm a woman holding political office," Regina snorts. "I don't **have** any friends."

"So you call an enemy instead?" Emma shrugs, nonplussed.

Regina tilts her head onto one side and blinks at Emma with a steady gaze before her mouth curves in a tiny smile and she looks down at her desk, pushing the papers on it with a single finger. "You and I have been adversaries, Miss Swan, and we may disagree when it comes to the political arena and my actions within it, but I don't think I'd call you an enemy."

"Oh?" Emma leans forwards, resting her elbows onto her knees, a quizzical expression on her face. "Then what am I? To you, I mean. What am I?"

"A singular irritation," Regina retorts, but there's little malice in it. "And, I believe, also a Democrat."

There's a distasteful twist to Regina's mouth that pastes a grin on Emma's lips and she lets out a bark of laughter, leaning back in her chair.

"There's a reason they call you The Evil Queen, you know," she says.

"Who calls me that?" Regina acts like she's appalled, even going so far as to press a hand to her chest in a melodramatic gesture that has Emma chuckling all over again. "That's a **terrible** thing to call someone."

"Right," Emma responds with a wicked grin, "because you're not a queen."

Her inference doesn't go unnoticed by Regina, who narrows her gaze and presses her lips into a hard line of discontent, but she's wise enough to say nothing. She's heard all the names before, endured their ignominy and pretended that it doesn't matter; all that _does_ matter is her ability to get her job done. But hearing the familiar name fall from Emma's lips prickles uncomfortably at the back of her neck and Regina can't help but feel the title sitting heavy on her shoulders, a burden of her high office and her femininity.

"Well," Regina draws in a pensive breath and lets it out again slowly, "I **am** sorry for calling you so late. It was…inappropriate of me and clearly a lapse in judgment so I would appreciate if you – "

"Uh, **no**," Emma butts in and holds a finger in the air, eyebrows knitting together. "You don't get to just brush it off like that. You called me by mistake – " she holds her fingers up in air quotes " – but I'm a journalist, Regina. I look for the story behind the story."

"There isn't one in this instance, dear," Regina says smoothly, pushing at the papers on her desk again and picking up her glasses, pushing them onto her nose.

Emma stands and walks the couple of paces to the edge of the desk, planting her hands onto its surface and leaning in towards Regina. She can sense the other woman's trepidation, the almost fearful way she draws back from the proximity, pressing herself into the leather chair. And Emma can't help smiling at it; for all the years they've clashed and disagreed and traded verbal blows in and out of press conferences and interviews and editorials, there's nothing between them now other than air. But it's crackling with something new and, despite knowing the reputation Senator Mills has and who she purports to be, Emma feels like a drunken – honest – telephone call has opened up entirely new possibilities between them.

"Here's the thing," Emma says quietly, and she can hear Regina's breathing quicken in the muted air of the office, "I remember the things you said to me the other night. And I'm the last person you should be saying those things to. I'm the last person someone like you should **ever** want to call when you're drunk and lonely and…and…well…sad. But you **did** call me, Regina. And all you have is my word that I won't put everything I heard into a story and hurt you more than any political enemy ever could."

"Your **word**?" Regina forces out harshly, attempting a sneer but not quite able to pull it off. "How **noble** of you."

"Yeah, it is," Emma shrugs casually, cocking her head onto one side. "But you know what? The next time you want to destroy a bottle of 40 year old single malt, how about you call me again and invite me over to share it with you?"

"And why on earth would I do that?" Regina says, her voice thick.

"Because, like you said, I'm not your enemy," Emma says equivocally. "And I **know** I'm not your friend. But maybe I'm somewhere in between. And maybe that's not the worst thing to have."

Standing upright, Emma runs a hand through her hair again and lets out a faint laugh before shaking her head. She's always doggedly sought out the truth, even convinced herself that she can find it buried beneath the lies that inhabit the political landscape. And even if Regina can't remember what she said while under the influence of alcohol, Emma can. Every word. And the story behind those words and that telephone call intrigues her far more than any political machinations could ever do. If she's forced to admit it to herself, Senator Regina Mills intrigues her and always has.

"Never mind," Emma mutters, turning on her heel and marching across the office. She's almost at the door when she hears her name called out in a high-pitched, almost desperate sort of tone. By the time she spins around to face Regina, the other woman has regained some of her composure, even if her hands are tightly clenched together on the desk and her face is drawn in taut lines.

"It wouldn't do, you know," Regina says grimly, "to be seen associating with you – a journalist and a – a bleeding heart liberal. People would talk."

"I know," Emma says with a tiny smile. "Which is kind of half the fun, right?"

Regina's nostrils flare at the mere thought of it, and she swallows hard, thinking of how she'd opened up to Emma with every slurred word, every confession, every weakened declaration. A cold trickle of regret shivers down her spine as she realizes that it was one of the most dangerous things she's ever done in her political career.

But perhaps not entirely a mistake.

"Saturday night," Regina says abruptly, as Emma raises one eyebrow in silent question. "If you want a glass of the finest apple cider you've ever tasted, I'm free on Saturday night. I make it myself, Miss Swan, and you can consider it an apology of sorts, if you wish."

Emma mulls the offer over before she reaches for the door handle and shrugs. "Sure. Like I'm going to turn down the chance to make you grovel a bit more. But as for the apple cider…got anything stronger?"

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	2. Chapter 2 - Crossing The Floor

Chapter 2: Crossing The Floor

Emma's in Regina's office before the intern outside has the opportunity to stand in her way. Not that his useless flapping and half-finished objections provide much in the way of a barrier; he's been keeping the same hours as Regina lately and to say he's tired is an understatement. So as he hovers behind Emma, awaiting whatever sentence the Evil Queen might rain down on his head, the intern wishes he'd defied his father and applied to a local law firm instead. Because if he's going to be working from dawn until the small hours of the morning on little more than coffee fumes and enthusiasm – currently waning rapidly – then he figures that he shouldn't be quite so terrified all the time.

Putting her hands onto her hips, Emma ignores the intern and focuses instead on Regina, who has looked up from her desk before returning to the stack of papers piled in front of her. She takes a pen and signs the top sheaf with something of a flourish, then sighs and lifts her head, putting the pen back down onto her desk with a deliberate slowness. Emma grinds her back teeth together but stays quiet: whatever she has to say is for Regina's ears only and not for the meandering idiocy of the intern who leans around her and blurts out an apology.

"Senator Mills," he says in a breathy, wheedling tone, "I'm so sorry, she just – "

"That's quite alright, Kevin," Regina cuts in, rising from her chair and walking around the desk to perch on its edge. She smiles warmly at him, even though her gaze remains steely, fixed on Emma. "Why don't you go home – I think we're done here for the evening."

Her tone brooks no dissent and Kevin looks between the two women before he backs away, heading for the door. As it clicks shut behind him, Regina's smile falls instantly and she stares somewhat balefully at Emma before folding her arms, her features acquiring a hard mask that gives nothing away.

"You know I could have security here in seconds," Regina comments.

"Is that a threat?" Emma asks, surprise heightening her tone.

"A statement," Regina qualifies, and unfolds her arms, fingers curling around the edge of the desk on either side of her hips. "I keep long hours and am often here alone through the night. We wouldn't want just anyone barging in here now, would we?"

"I guess not," Emma says, taking a few paces forwards further into the center of the room. "But those guys know me and they know I'm not dangerous."

Regina laughs softly: it's an oddly vicious little sound, captured somewhere between appraisal and refute, and she rolls her eyes as Emma draws closer. She's tried telling herself that Emma Swan doesn't exist; tried convincing herself that anything related to Emma was nothing more than an aberration. She almost succeeded, too, but the reality of the situation – and the woman causing it – comes flooding back to overwhelm her senses and Regina's fingers tighten around the edge of the desk, pressing against the wood hard enough to hurt.

"Then what, may I ask, has you bursting into my office at such an hour?" Regina says, her voice quite belying the unsettled feeling that's rising in her stomach. The truth of the matter is that Emma Swan _is_ dangerous – and only Regina can quantify how and why.

"You gave an interview to a rival newspaper," Emma says, her eyes bright and hard, glittering in the muted yellow light of the office.

Regina's shoulders rise and fall in a little shrug and she settles herself against the desk, hips pushed out and silk shirt straining over her chest. There's an almost casual dismissal to her stance that infuriates Emma, and her clenched fists bring a sly smile to Regina's mouth, who postures all the more provocatively in response.

"I granted an interview in order to outline new policies and publicize the work of this office," Regina tells her, then leans forwards conspiratorially and lowers her voice to a whisper. "I don't know whether you've noticed or not, dear, but that's part of my job."

"That's not what I meant," Emma spits, unsure whether Regina's condescension is aggravating or arousing. Either way, she silently berates herself for reacting to it and wonders whether this was Regina's plan all along, to make her compliant and trusting and easier to manipulate.

"Then what **do** you mean?" Regina asks, sounding bored by Emma's anger. "If you have a point, make it and we can both continue with our evenings – what's left of them, anyway."

"What I mean," Emma advances upon an increasingly startled Regina until they're inches away from one another, "is that I thought we had an understanding. After last weekend, I thought that you might actually want to foster a working relationship that – "

She's silenced by the trickle of laughter that comes from Regina, who reaches up and pulls off her glasses, dropping them onto the desk beside her.

"After last weekend?" Regina echoes, and reaches up, pinching the bridge of her nose and pressing two fingertips between her eyes as though she has a headache. "I was wondering when that would rear its ugly head. Are you planning to blackmail me into giving certain concessions to your newspaper that I wouldn't give to other journalists because of our…dalliance?"

"What?" Emma's head rears back on her neck and she peers at Regina like she's never seen her before, a frown burrowing between her brows. "Do you really think I'd stoop to **that**?"

"You're a journalist, Miss Swan," Regina states blankly. "I've been fighting my corner in the political arena for years, so let's not make the mistake that I'm naïve enough to fall for a pretty face and some passably charming company."

"Right back at ya," Emma says harshly, and they stare at one another for a long moment before Regina's eyebrows rise challengingly. Emma knows it's wrong to rise to the bait, but there's something about the Senator that encourages her to throw caution to the wind. It's why she ended up in Regina's bed on Saturday night, and why she wants to be there again. The woman is infuriating, arrogant and utterly heartless.

It's quite at odds with the memories that tumble inside Emma's head. And as she gazes at Regina now, she has to wonder at the softness and vulnerability she experienced in the confines of the Senator's bed; the unbridled passion that was contained in a tangle of limbs and the whispered declarations of hidden want. If it was overwhelmingly intoxicating at the time, the recollection of it still has enough power to weaken Emma's knees and send a thrill racing down her spine.

"Look," Regina finally says, "it was very nice, but it happened, and now it's over."

"Nice? **Nice**?" Emma barks. "Shit, Regina, the Scotch was nice. Dinner was nice. Your palatial mansion is nice. But don't try to compartmentalize what we did because I was there, remember? And nice isn't a word **I'd** use to describe it."

Regina shifts, desperate not to remember and yet unable to forget. She unfurls her fingers from the edge of the desk and then clenches them back around it, holding on as though for dear life. If she can find something solid to hang onto, something concrete and not contained in the depths of Emma's eyes or the whisper of skin against her own – if she can simply force herself to obliterate any and all desire for this impossible woman from her body, then it might not betray her again.

"I'm not some lesbian Democrat do-gooder that you can pick up whenever you feel like it," Regina snarls, her lip curling. "I am a Republican Senator and you and your kind may have the morals of an alley cat, but there are some things I hold dear."

If Emma's offended by Regina's words, she doesn't show it. In fact, the smirk that springs to her mouth is little more than downright mocking and Regina can feel herself bristle as Emma lets out a bark of dismissive laughter.

"Oh, I know what **you** hold dear, Senator," Emma says, emphasizing Regina's title and spitting it out like the insult it surely is. "You told me all about what you treasure and what you want that night on the telephone, remember? Oh, wait, no you don't. Or, at least, that's what you're going with, right?"

"How dare you!" Regina hisses, two bright spots of color high up on her cheeks.

"How dare I?" Emma cries, and now she moves in close to Regina – much closer than she has any right to be and much closer than is advisable. Because closeness is their downfall; it's their saving grace and their Achilles heel. The air swirls around them and seems to envelop them in a pocket of adversarial intimacy where they're drawn together even though reason, circumstance and sheer rationality should keep them apart. "How dare **you**, Senator? How dare you sit in judgment of me and what I do. How dare you think you can use me like one of your little acolytes and that I won't call you on your shit. You want to know what you said to me when you were drunk and crying down the telephone? You said you were lonely. That you needed someone to touch you. That you wanted it more than anything – more than your career and that it was killing you."

Regina swallows dryly. Of _course_ she remembers saying that. Of _course_ she remembers how the feeling aches inside her, endless ripples of all that she's put aside in order to get to where she is today. When she called Emma that night, she wanted – _needed_ – to tell someone how it feels; how she struggles with it every day and how she desperately yearns for something warm. _Someone_ warm.

"People like you, Miss Swan, seek to destroy people like me with your stories and lies. Whatever you imagine we shared or however you think that might make your job easier, you're wrong. Being with you is…it's political suicide."

"Is it?" Emma says, cocking her head onto one side and looking at Regina intently. "Maybe that's better than actual suicide, though, yeah?"

Her words hang between them and Regina sways a little, feeling sick to her stomach.

"That's right," Emma continues with a little nod of her head. "I remember that part, too."

She's too close and Regina feels like she can't breathe, can't speak and can't even think clearly. Emma Swan is the epitome of everything Regina has tried to avoid in her life – _has_ avoided successfully until now. She's had her career and her personal life laid out in neat rows, each step carefully considered and if one required an abandonment of the other, then that was merely a casualty of war. Because her life _has_ been a war and she's fought without restraint for every single victory, however small.

Regina isn't quite sure what made her gravitate to Emma that night. She only knows that it made her feel quite unlike herself; a blessed respite, a relief, an escape of sorts. Except now she feels like a caged animal, quite unable to do anything other than watch as her freedom slips away and Emma Swan holds the key to her prison.

Lunging forwards, Regina reaches for Emma. Her fingers are almost touching strands of blonde hair when there are two palms against her shoulders, pushing her firmly back against the desk. As a sighing gasp escapes her mouth, Regina can see the anger in Emma's eyes, darkening them to a deep sea green.

"No," Emma says firmly. "You don't get to do that. Not until you tell me it's what you want."

Regina's mouth forms a resolute line and she even shakes her head a little because to admit to this, to give voice to the burgeoning want that's chasing the echoes inside her chest and filling up the empty spaces would be tantamount to conceding defeat. And Regina Mills concedes to no one.

"You told me you wanted someone to touch you, Regina." Emma's voice is a low rumble of temptation, and Regina can remember how she pleaded for Emma to do just that after they'd dined and drunk Scotch and sat on the plush couch inside her home.

"I…" Regina licks her lips because they're painfully dry and she's actually trembling. She can feel the hardness of Emma's fingers, hooking over her shoulders and keeping her in place. There's a part of her that's almost thankful for that.

"You wanted me to touch you," Emma continues. "You **begged** me to."

"We'd been drinking," Regina forces out, her throat strangling the words, squashing her voice. She winces as Emma moves even closer so that their bodies are almost touching; she can feel Emma's breath on her cheek and it's everything she doesn't want. But it's everything she needs – her body is fairly humming with it.

"Except you've already used that excuse." Emma's gaze roams over Regina's features before returning to stare into her eyes and somewhere, at the back of everything, there's pity. It rankles inside Regina's chest and her lips twist over the acknowledgement of it, nostrils flaring. "Unless you've got a problem and can't admit it. Is that what this is? Do you need to check into rehab, Senator? Is that the story here?"

"Stop it!" Regina hisses, turning her head to one side so that she doesn't have to look into Emma's eyes. "I don't have a drinking problem, Miss Swan. The only problem I have is you and your inappropriate behavior. Now let me go."

"No."

Now Regina swivels her head back to stare at Emma, horrified by the other woman's denial. But she feels like she's burning where Emma is touching her, aflame under the pressure of Emma's fingers. She swallows with a faint click and hears her breath echo in her ears, hollow and empty as the platitudes that have been her sole company all these years.

"I'll let you go when you tell me that it wasn't the alcohol," Emma says quietly, blinking steadily at Regina. "I'll leave you alone when you tell me that the telephone call, the dinner at your place, the night we spent together wasn't some kind of chance happening. You **chose** me, Regina. You chose me for a reason and if you think the only person this reflects badly on is **you** then you're an idiot."

Regina says nothing, her breath coming in hard little gusts. The choices she's had throughout her life have always been so carefully made, balanced and weighed against the near insurmountable odds that were stacked against her. For a woman in politics – a woman in the office she holds – the choices offered to her have always been necessarily devoid of emotion.

It's wholly alarming, then, that the choices she's made over the last week have been steeped in all the feelings she's never really given voice to, let alone properly understood.

"You wanted me to touch you," Emma repeats. "And I think you still do."

"I don't…" Regina whispers, but it's too late because the desire is already in her mouth. She can taste it flooding over her tongue and it flavors everything she knows to be true and all the things that aren't. And as she reaches for Emma, crushing their lips together, she knows that this is a choice she didn't have to make. It's one she needs to.

Emma makes a tiny sound of protest in her throat and tears her mouth from Regina's. Her hands grasp Regina's shoulders firmly now, shoving her backwards and turning her around. When Regina's torso thuds onto the surface of her desk, she can feel Emma bend over her: solid warmth down the length of her body, pinning her against the uneven piles of papers and her glasses, hard and uncomfortable against her chest.

"I know you like to be in charge of things," Emma says, her voice dipping to a dangerously threatening – and thrilling – timbre. "I know you like to be in control. I mean, you **are** a politician, after all. And a damn good one."

Emma's hands are on Regina's legs, fingers hooking beneath the hem of her immaculately tailored skirt. Slowly, she begins to push it up towards Regina's thighs and each inch traveled seems to take an eternity. Regina bites her lip because all she wants to do is cry out, to beg Emma to hurry, to satisfy the ache between her legs and the want that sits low in her stomach.

"But you're not in control now. I am. All you have to do is tell me you want me and I'll touch you. After all, that's what you want, isn't it? That's what you've **always** wanted. To be touched by someone so that you know you're not alone. To be touched by **me**."

Regina groans through gritted teeth as Emma continues to push her skirt upwards until her fingers flutter over the lacy tops of Regina's sheer, black stockings. And now it's Emma's turn to draw breath and sway a little as her fingertips meet naked skin.

"Jesus," Emma mutters. "Jesus, Regina. Just tell me, please." She pushes Regina's skirt up to her waist, revealing heated flesh that Emma can't help smoothing her palms over before her fingers slide between Regina's thighs and linger against panties, the only barrier between her skin and the other woman's flesh.

Emma puts one hand between Regina's shoulder blades, pushing down, her fingers splayed out. She can feel Regina struggle a little at the sudden pressure, then succumb with a deep sigh that relaxes her body against the desk. It's the sort of acquiescence that she's never really granted to anyone but as she feels Emma's fingers press against her, Regina rolls her hips and realizes that, more than anything, she wants Emma inside her. She wants this more than she wants to protect herself. She wants Emma more than reason allows and more than the consequences such a liaison might bring to bear.

"Emma," Regina finally says, her voice muffled against the desk and her arms stretching over it to cling to the opposite side. "Emma, I want you. I do. I want you."

Emma's sigh is one of relief, of pleasure, of anticipation and lust, all combined in a throaty growl that comes close to Regina's ear as the blonde leans over her and pushes down hard with her hand. She keeps Regina in her place – and the irony of that isn't lost on either of them as Emma's fingers make their way past Regina's panties and sink into wet flesh. The second her fingers enter Regina, both women groan aloud: thankful and wanton.

Regina's fingers curl over the edge of the desk as she's forced down onto its surface and Emma's fingers begin to work in and out of her. She spreads her legs a little wider, lifts her hips a little more, starts to move them as much as she can to meet Emma's thrusting fingers. She can hear Emma panting somewhere above her head and part of her desperately wants to see the look on the blonde's face, needs to see those lips pressed together in determination and desire. Regina knows there will be no excuses this time – there's no caveat to preclude this and she understands as Emma pushes deep inside her and twists her fingers around that this is a beginning, not an ending. For them, it's a series of firsts.

It's not romantic, Regina thinks gratefully. She learned long ago that romance is for the weak and has no place in her life. This is raw and hedonistic and all the things that a woman like her should never admit to, let alone ask for. But there's a rightness to it, as though Emma's hands belong on her body and can make it come alive again after being dead for so very long.

Emma's fingers are hooked, digging into Regina's back as she pushes in and out of the Senator, prone and submissive on the desk below her. She curls her fingers as she pulls them all the way out of Regina, then shoves them back inside again, hard. Screwing them around, Emma presses her fingertips into the soft, sensitive pad of flesh that makes Regina jerk beneath her and let out a keening cry, turning her head to one side. She opens her mouth, sucks in a huge breath and holds it until she begins to tremble under Emma's touch, then sound and gratitude and release tumble over her lips and throughout her entire body until her eyes close and she is still, silent.

By the time Emma staggers back a few paces, Regina is mumbling something to herself and rising from the desk, pulling at her disheveled clothing and looking dazed. She notices Emma as though for the first time and makes a show of patting at her hair, proffering a tight smile.

"I must look a fright," Regina says in a small voice.

"You look beautiful," Emma says, the compliment out of her mouth before she has the good sense to hold it in. But it's the truth: Regina Mills looks like the woman Emma spent the night with, not the uptight, carefully controlled Senator that everyone else seems to recognize. No; _this_ Regina is unkempt and flushed and utterly captivating. Emma's heart sinks. She knows all too well what those sort of thoughts mean, and how Senator Mills can take advantage of them.

But Regina merely laughs at Emma's words and shakes her head, straightening her skirt and attempting to make herself look presentable, at least.

"So," Emma shrugs, gazing down at her right hand with its glistening fingers and suddenly feeling horribly awkward.

"Indeed," Regina answers, eyes narrowing as she gazes at Emma. Then, she swiftly grabs Emma's wrist and tugs the blonde towards her. She can smell herself on Emma's fingers as she brings them to her mouth and pushes them between her lips, sucking on each individual finger. Regina never takes her eyes off Emma, who visibly wilts as Regina scrapes her teeth over knuckles and fingertips. It's only when she's completely satisfied that Regina lets go of Emma's arm and smiles.

"I think that might conclude our business for this evening," she says quietly. "I trust you got everything you wanted from this meeting, Miss Swan?"

"More or less," Emma swallows, regaining some semblance of self. "How about you, Senator? Care to make a comment for our readers?"

Regina's eyebrows rise and she steps in towards Emma, bringing them much closer than is necessary and much closer than is wise, given the way the air crackles between them with a resurgence of tension.

"How about," Regina muses, "you drop by my house tomorrow night and I'll give you the sort of one-on-one I think you're looking for."

"You're not talking about an interview, are you?" Emma knows she doesn't have to ask, but can't help herself, and is pleasantly surprised when Regina laughs and shakes her head.

"No, dear," Regina answers. "I'm really not."

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	3. Chapter 3 - Dark Horse

Chapter 3 – Dark Horse

Emma's head lolls back on her neck and thuds gently against the huge armchair in Regina's living room. She can vaguely hear the crackling of the fire in the grate, but it's almost drowned out by the pounding of her own heart, echoing in her ears like an incessant tide whooshing back and forth. Her fingers grip the arms of the chair so hard that she wonders if she's in danger of ruining the – probably opulently expensive – furnishing. She laughs inside her head because it's ridiculous, the thoughts that are flitting through her mind when the only thing she should be focusing on are the sensations shivering up from where Regina is kneeling between her legs.

She's been down there for what seems like forever and Emma has entered something of a fugue state because she's lost count of the times Regina's almost brought her to orgasm and then stopped, chuckling wickedly when Emma's hips cant upwards and she cries out in anguish. And it _is_ anguish. It's the most incredible, torturous feeling that Emma's experienced in years, and she teeters on the cusp of pleasure and pain in a whirl of what Regina's doing to her and making her feel. Her chest is so tight that it's like she can't breathe, and yet she does, sucking in huge lungfuls of air and pushing them out again in sighs and moans.

Regina's fingers press against her thighs and her head bobs up and down as her tongue darts forwards, laving a wet line inside Emma. Then she sucks flesh between her lips and her teeth scrape over it, making Emma jerk up from the chair with a whine of surprise. It's only when Regina's tongue circles her clitoris – for the hundredth, maybe more, time – that Emma knows she simply has to gain release. She lets go of the arms of the chair and plunges her hands into Regina's hair, fingertips bumping over the other woman's scalp and nails digging in hard enough to elicit a startled groan. Emma begins to thrust her hips forwards, wanting more, needing more, craving Regina's mouth at the same time she simply _has_ to make it stop and reach the elusive orgasm that her body desires. Regina's hands splay out on her thighs and there's a proprietary touch to the way her fingers bend around the tightened muscles. Emma wonders if this is what it feels like to be owned by someone – she's always been something of a free spirit and decried the sort of possessive nature that often typified the relationships of her friends. But being owned by Regina Mills; being utterly helpless and perhaps even in her thrall feels…

Emma rises off the chair again as Regina sucks her clitoris between lips that are as demanding as they are soft, and as she throws back her head and lets out an agonized, gloriously wanton cry as she comes. And maybe being owned this way isn't so bad, after all.

It's something she might even get used to.

She slumps back into her seat, chest heaving as she tries to regain her breath and when she opens her eyes, Regina is already on her feet. They're both half dressed, although Emma's willing to bet that Regina looks a lot more together than she does. Neither of them had planned for the way they leapt at one another, grabbing and snatching at clothes, kissing passionately enough to make them stumble and sway into the living room. But the physical imperative between them seems to overwhelm everything and anything else – it's like they're hormonal teenagers who simply can't keep their hands off one another.

Regina's tailored pants are creased and she plucks at them, clucking under her breath in disapproval as she attempts to straighten them out. Then she catches sight of her shirt lying in a crumpled heap on the floor by Emma's feet and lets out a tiny laugh, shaking her head. Her gaze travels up Emma's naked legs, up to where the blonde is sprawled in the chair, still a little dazed, and Regina's smile increases across lips that are still gleaming wetly.

"You're laughing at me," Emma says, and frowns at her voice, deep and husky, still raw from the sheer force of her climax.

"Not at you, dear," Regina tells her. "At **us**. At **this**." Her hand sweeps out to take in the detritus of their clothing and she sighs a little. She'd promised herself that it would be clinical and emotionless, but when she saw Emma on her doorstep, golden curls tumbling over her shoulders and that provocatively smug grin on her lips, Regina felt a deep longing in her chest. And it wasn't just for sex, either. If she's honest with herself, Emma Swan has been lingering on the outskirts of her mind for more than just a few days or weeks.

Regina prides herself on being able to seduce whomever she needs to, and in whatever way she needs to, as well. It's a skill her mother instilled in her and, throughout her childhood, Regina watched avidly and learned how to navigate this world and bend the people in it to her will. But Emma Swan always refused to be seduced. Emma Swan always stood resolute and firm and – Regina grimaces at the memory of it – irritatingly truthful when it came to reporting the political machinations of a Congresswoman whose rise to power had been hard fought and hard won.

"I once called you the thorn in my side," Regina says quietly, then realizes that she's spoken out loud. Emma cocks her head onto one side and they look at each other silently before Emma holds out her hand and beckons at Regina with crooked fingers.

"Come here," she entreats, a tiny smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

"Oh…no." Regina holds up a hand, palm out in refusal. "I don't do cuddling or snuggling or whatever you women call it these days."

"**We** women?" Emma repeats, incredulous. She struggles upwards in the chair, reaching down and grabbing her underwear, wriggling into them before glancing up at Regina again. "Well that's just a whole heap of something I don't want to get into right now," she mutters, and is somewhat consoled by the aggrieved expression that flits across Regina's features before disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

"Cuddling and snuggling notwithstanding," Emma sighs, holding out her hand again, "come here anyway."

"I'm not comfortable with this," Regina mutters, as she allows Emma to take her hand and pull her onto the chair.

"Wow," Emma declares sardonically, "I never would have guessed that someone like you would be uncomfortable with something like this." She tugs Regina until the other woman is practically sitting in her lap, winding her arms around Regina's naked torso and holding her close – mostly out of sheer pigheadedness.

"Someone like me?" Regina leans back in Emma's arms and stares down at her, surprise lifting her eyebrows. "And what's **that** supposed to mean?"

"That you don't go in for cuddling and snuggling," Emma mocks gently, smiling at the aggrieved huff of air that comes from Regina's mouth.

"There are politicians who find that sort of thing conducive to furthering their careers," Regina says dryly, "and are willing to kiss enough babies as it takes and hug as many potential voters as they can in order to appear human." She shifts slightly on the chair, legs tangling with Emma's and turns her head slightly; nothing good ever came from analyzing her lack of ability to connect with people. She'd watched other politicians do it so easily and always envied them, but had never been able to do anything other than copy them. Empty gestures and vacant smiles: that had been the sum total of her personal relations offensive.

"So…" Emma's voice breaks Regina's reverie and she draws in a short breath, turning her head to find the blonde's face painfully close to her own. "Is that what all of this is? You canvassing for my vote, Senator?"

"Of **course** not," Regina snaps, leaping from Emma's embrace and scrambling from the chair. She takes a few, harried steps before turning and fixing the blonde with a hard stare. "Is that what **you** think this is about? That I'm somehow trying to procure your loyalty?"

Emma blinks and opens her mouth, wordless at the sudden change of pace and the rising tension she can literally see creeping over Regina's features. Even half-dressed, even with her hair mussed and lipstick smudged across one cheek, Regina is nothing short of imperious and Emma shrinks back into the chair for a second before she remembers where they are and what they've done.

Straightening, Emma shoves at her hair and lets out a grating sigh of impatience before meeting Regina's glare with one of her own that's fiery enough to make the Senator freeze where she stands.

"Yeah," she says with a sharp nod. "That's **exactly** what I think this is about. I mean, for fuck's sake, Regina, I'm sitting here practically naked and you just gave me some of the best head I've ever had, **ever**. So of course this is all a game. I mean, why would it be anything else?"

Her voice is hard, sharp-edged enough to make Regina stagger a little and give an audible gasp, whether of pain or surprise, Emma isn't sure. But there's something that casts a sheen over those dark eyes that is about as far from some sort of Machiavellian premise as it's possible to be.

"I know you think I'm a hack," Emma continues, "but I haven't immersed myself in the world of politics – in your world – for all these years to not recognize the truth when I see it. My editor says it's like my superpower or something. And let me tell you, I've worked there longer than most of the other reporters, but that guy is a misogynist dinosaur of a man who rarely says anything to me that doesn't start with _hey girlie_."

Regina's nostrils flare but she says nothing. Instead, she presses her lips together in a firm line that Emma's seen before and understands enough to know that the Senator is conflicted.

"I know you think everyone's out to get you, and, let's face it, you're a woman in the political arena. So yeah, they probably are. But you should know, Regina, that I'm not one of them. We might live in very different political landscapes, but this," Emma sweeps her hand down the length of her body, "isn't part of some game. At least, not to me. Okay?"

It takes a moment for Regina to assimilate Emma's words and truly hear them. Then she frowns, peering at the blonde's face, searching it for a trace of deception. Satisfied that there is none, Regina's shoulders relax and she curls her arms around her torso, hugging them against herself as though the mere action itself can bring her the solace she so clearly seeks.

"Okay," she finally murmurs, nodding just once.

"Besides," Emma shrugs, holding out her hand towards Regina again, "if anyone ever found out about this, they'd either think I was making it up or assume that I'm in your pocket. My impartiality as a journalist would be the laughing stock of the newsroom."

"I'd never thought of it that way," Regina admits, eyeing Emma's outstretched hand with some skepticism.

"Because you're so far up your own political ass you've forgotten what it's like for the little people," Emma intones, and wiggles her fingers. "And, speaking of your ass, get it over here."

Regina's first instinct is to admonish Emma because she's simply not used to being spoken to in such a way. The people around her know that speaking freely is a reward, not a right. But Emma Swan flouts all the rules Regina's ever made, both for other people and, most importantly, for herself. She can't help smiling, then, as she moves forwards almost involuntarily and takes Emma's hand, allowing the other woman to pull her back onto the chair again. If she's honest with herself, then Regina finds Emma's honesty refreshing, if a little crass.

"There," Emma says, wrapping her arms around Regina and holding the other woman against her naked chest. "Isn't that much better than looking for ulterior motives?"

"I…I suppose it's not the worst thing to happen tonight," Regina sniffs.

"Please," Emma huffs in mock offense. "I'm amazing. And so are you, by the way."

Regina turns her head to look at Emma, a frown burrowing between her eyes. "Thank you, not that I need your validation. Would you care to be more specific?"

Emma rolls her head back and lets out a groan of frustration. "Can you just take a compliment without questioning it, Senator?"

"Can you use your words to justify it, Miss Swan? Or is that asking too much for someone of your dubious literary background?" Regina is smug, settling herself against Emma and rather enjoying the intimacy that they're fostering, despite how alarming and unexpected it is.

"You're such an asshole," Emma mutters, but her arm tightens around Regina, fingers pressing against naked flesh and inching up towards the elastic of Regina's bra. "And that makes me not want to give you any compliments ever again."

"I'll remember that the next time I'm between your legs," Regina says smartly. But it's shocking, really, that she can voice these sorts of things without shame – there's been so much of it in her life that she's schooled herself into avoiding it whenever possible. And that's always meant never getting too close to anyone, much less talking about it. But with Emma, Regina feels liberated – not just sexually, but in other, more pervasive ways. Freedom always came at a price she simply wasn't willing to pay, not when her political career was on the rise.

She'd forgotten the taste of it: heady and addictive.

"So there's going to be a next time, then?" Emma enquires, and Regina turns her head to look at the blonde; those sharp green eyes are clouded with uncertainty, perhaps even trepidation.

There's a plethora of caustic replies that spring immediately to Regina's lips, but she chooses to remain silent. Her mother always told her that there was a time for speaking and a time for holding one's tongue, and even if Cora Mills probably hadn't had this particular scenario in mind – Regina grimaces inwardly at the incongruity of her thoughts – then the value of saying nothing has never seemed more worthy than it does right now.

Regina brings a hand up to cup Emma's cheek, her thumb tracking a line just beneath Emma's eye. Touching her suddenly seems very important, and she can tell from the way Emma's breathing hitches that it's absolutely the right thing to do, and that now is the time to talk.

"I hope so," she says.

Emma nods, teeth pulling at her lower lip and she seems satisfied with Regina's answer. "Okay," she asserts. "Okay, good. Because I meant what I said before – about you giving me the best head of my life. Be a shame to let that go to waste, right?"

As her eyes crinkle into a grin, Regina shakes her head in amused reprove. "And what makes you think it was going to waste, hm? Just because I don't hang all my dirty laundry out to dry like some of my colleagues doesn't mean I don't have any."

"Dirty laundry," Emma hums, sliding her palm over Regina's hip bone, then pushing her fingers between the other woman's legs, rubbing against the material of her pants that's already hot. "Why, Senator, are you trying to turn me on?"

Regina swallows a groan as Emma's fingers press insistently against her, and she leans her head back onto Emma's shoulder; it's warm and inviting and the pressure of Emma's fingers sends waves of heat throughout her entire body. Shifting slightly, Regina moves so that her body is flush against Emma's and she grinds down a little with her hips as Emma breathes heavily against her ear.

Closing her eyes, Regina feels Emma push at her bra until it's shoved up towards her neck, freeing her breasts. A finger and thumb close around one nipple, pinching it tightly until Regina cries out, a rush of sensation prickling and tumbling down her body and she arches her back, pressing her breast into Emma's caress. When she falls back against Emma's body, Regina feels the warmth of the other woman permeating through her back, spreading into every part of her chest. And with it comes desire, lust, a wanton need for the things Regina's never really allowed herself; things that require careful indulgence and the casting aside of everything her mother taught her.

Emma's fingers move and slip behind the waistband of Regina's pants, plunging down inside her panties. Regina moans aloud and spreads her legs, hooking her knees over Emma's and lifting her hips so that the fingers wandering over her belly move lower and slip just inside her. Regina was never much of a rebellious teenager, but she feels like one now because all she wants is to give herself to Emma without reserve. No caveats. No rules. Nothing but the feel of skin on skin and sated flesh.

"What do you want?" Emma breathes hoarsely as she seeks out Regina's neck with her mouth, nuzzling beneath the other woman's ear before biting gently and eliciting a deliciously graveled noise from Regina's throat. Her hand is held firmly in place between clothing and soaked flesh, and Emma curls her fingers as they slip inside Regina, her thumb bumping over the other woman's clitoris, making her hiss between her teeth.

"I want this," Regina growls, her voice dropping to a low rumble as she twists her head around and brushes her lips over Emma's. "I want you."

Emma thrusts her head forwards to kiss Regina again – she can taste herself on Regina's mouth and she pushes her tongue inside to savor it, to momentarily lose herself in it. When she pulls her head back, she can see that Regina's eyes are closed, her breathing irregular, her lips full and wet. It makes Emma grasp her harder, her right hand thrusting inside the other woman; her mouth curves slightly as she sees Regina reach out, clenching the arms of the chair so hard her knuckles turn white.

"Yeah?" Emma breathes, thumbnail raking over Regina's clitoris. She can feel how the other woman strains towards her touch and it makes her dauntless, brazen, even arrogant. Emma lets go of Regina's breast with her left hand and slides it upwards, her thumb settling in the hollow beneath Regina's jaw, fingers matching on the opposite side. She tugs Regina's head back onto her shoulder and squeezes a little, feeling corded muscle beneath her palm. "How about this?" Emma whispers. "Do you want this too?"

She's working her fingers in and out of Regina now, feeling the other woman buck against her hand. Emma can also feel Regina swallow, skin undulating beneath her palm as she's pressing her fingers into sinew. She half expected Regina to struggle, wondered if she'd put an end to this, but the woman lying on top of her rolls her hips and lets out a strangled moan as Emma releases her grip a little.

"Yes," Regina pants, sucking in air and squeezing her eyes tight shut. "God, yes, Emma, please…I just…**please**." It's ironic, really, that for someone who has so much power at her fingertips, Regina can't imagine anything she wants more right now than to feel powerless under Emma's. The feeling envelops her and she starts to see flickering lights behind her closed eyelids, begins to experience the onset of orgasm, tingling and prickling through her entire body. Emma's fingers hook inside her and sink into her flesh; Regina lets go of the armchair and reaches up, pulling Emma's hand from her throat at the same time she cries out – a long, protracted moan that echoes briefly from the high ceilings of her home before dissipating into the ether.

She falls back against Emma's body, trembling and close to tears. Then there are arms around her torso, holding her tight, whispered words against her temple. The frenetic jangling of her nerves is slowly replaced by a humming contentment that works its way around her veins, calming the blood and slowing her heartbeat.

"When I said you were amazing, what happened just now is kind of what I meant." Emma's voice sounds like it's coming from far away and Regina lets out a long, tight breath as she swallows painfully. Forcing her eyes open, she moves on Emma's lap, turning slightly and blinking into the sea of green surrounded by a mane of blonde curls that's gazing at her.

"I've never – " Regina begins, and then stops as her chest tightens and everything she's never been looms up to overwhelm her. "Never," she says again breathlessly, wonderingly.

"Me either. Not like that and not with someone like you. You have **no** idea how fucking beautiful you are when you're like this. It's not anywhere close to the person you are out there." Emma rolls her eyes and jerks her chin towards the window behind them. "Don't you get tired of it?"

"Tired of what?"

"Pretending like being a hardass is all you are?"

Emma's grinning, but it's not malicious and her features are so delightfully soft that Regina just blinks at her for a second, then leans forwards and presses their mouths together. It's ridiculous, how familiar this all seems, even in its infancy; and it's that familiarity that sends a spike of panic racing through Regina's chest, too.

When they part, Emma reaches up and, with a single finger, pushes back an errant lock of hair from Regina's brow. She tucks it behind the other woman's ear and smiles gently; it's a meaningless gesture, performed without guile but it's enough to plumb the depths of a well of emotion that's been blocked off and covered for too long.

When Regina begins to sob, Emma's face slides into a horrified expression and she tightens her embrace around the other woman, rocking her a little from side to side.

"Shit," she declares. "Shit, I didn't mean to – Regina – please don't do that because **fuck**, it's…"

"Terrifying?" Regina sniffles, and Emma lets out a bark of mirthless laughter.

"Yeah, something like that," she agrees. "What the fuck is going on? Most women don't cry after…well…after **that**. I mean, I'm good, but I don't know if I'm **that** good."

Regina extricates herself from Emma's arms, getting rather unsteadily to her feet and pulling uselessly at her bra before she sighs and throws her hands up in the air. She wipes a finger beneath her eye, staring as it comes away wet and then frowns at Emma.

"I'm not most women, and don't flatter yourself, dear," she declares, haughtily enough to make Emma chuckle gently. "Although," Regina adds, "I may be willing to renegotiate on cuddling and snuggling."

"Really?" Emma sits up in the chair, reaching down in front of it for her pants and sliding them up her legs until she's partially dressed. "Is The Evil Queen having an emotional breakthrough?" she asks, squinting up at Regina who glowers back down at her, regal even in her state of disheveled undress.

"What a delightful way to spoil a tender moment, Miss Swan," Regina sniffs, but the gleam in her eyes quite betrays the hardness of her tone.

"I have many skills," Emma jokes, then gets to her feet and stands in front of Regina, cocking her head to one side. "Opening my mouth and inserting my foot is one of them. You gonna punish me for that, my queen?"

Regina can't help the laughter that bubbles up her throat and over her lips. Emma Swan is an irascible, challenging, wholly irritating woman. And, somewhat disappointingly, she's starting to feel like a perfect fit for Regina. So when Regina trails her fingers down Emma's naked arm, it's a touch that resonates with the absence of control rather than the assertion of it.

"I just might," she murmurs, as Emma beams at her. "Why don't you come with me to my torture chamber and we'll find out, hm?"

Emma follows Regina into the hallway after snatching up her shirt from the floor, hugging it against her chest. Her eyes are wide and her jaw drops momentarily before she swallows and shakes her head rapidly.

"You have – you have a **torture** chamber?"

Regina pauses at the bottom of the staircase, turning on Emma with a wicked smile on her mouth and a roll of her eyes. "Why, yes, Miss Swan. I have a torture chamber. Although you may come to know it simply as my bedroom. And since when did a self-proclaimed hard-nosed journalist like yourself become so horribly gullible?"

"Since I started having sex with The Evil Queen, **obviously**," Emma shoots back, satisfied with the narrowing of Regina's eyes and the way she turns on her heel and heads back up the stairs again in silence. But she's half-naked and gloriously, mind-blowingly gorgeous and when she reaches the landing at the top of the stairs, Regina turns and beckons Emma with a smoldering look in her eyes.

Emma Swan might be gullible enough to believe the sort of fairy tales The Evil Queen throws at her about torture chambers, but she's insightful enough to know exactly what's waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Letting out a laugh, she takes them two at a time and practically chases Regina into her bedroom.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

The bedroom light goes off and the figure standing in the shadows beyond the boundaries of Regina's house lowers his camera. He fishes inside his jacket pocket for his cellphone, punching in a number and holding it up to his ear as it calls and rings on the end of the line.

"It's me," he says in a hushed tone, stepping back under the branches of a tree that provide him with camouflage. "No, listen, I have something for you. And you are **never** going to believe the pictures I got tonight."

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	4. Chapter 4 - Horizontal Federalism

"Why don't you come in?" Regina says sardonically as Emma bursts through her doorway without so much as a hello. She resembles something like a human tornado as she paces circles around the vast hallway, muttering under her breath as Regina closes the front door and waits. Her mother had always told her that patience was a virtue, but Regina never placed much store in virtuous behavior, especially when it came to the cut and thrust of the political arena that she eventually entered, weapons drawn and fighting spirit finely honed to lethal sharpness. Any patience Regina exhibits is, like so many of her people skills, something she's instilled within herself as a necessary evil – as much a part of her political life as is her armor.

But patience with Emma, Regina realizes, is something that's just…happened. And it comes as some surprise that, as she watches Emma mutter to herself and pull a brown envelope from beneath her jacket, no matter how much Emma storms and rages, Regina always feels like she's at the center of it. She always feels like she's ensconced in the calm heart of it all: the place to which Emma will inevitably return sooner or later.

"This is a fucking outrage!" Emma splutters, hand shaking as she thrusts the envelope towards Regina. "These arrived this morning and my editor didn't think to tell me about them or even let me see them until I was ready to leave tonight."

Regina takes the envelope from Emma, slightly mystified; but from the way Emma's face is contorted into an anguished frown, she knows there can't be anything good inside. Sliding open the envelope, Regina removes the contents: a sheaf of photographs containing pictures of herself and Emma. The first few depict them having dinner – if Regina recalls correctly, just a few nights ago – in her kitchen. They've obviously been taken with a telephoto lens that could zoom past the border of trees she'd had put in around her garden for precisely this specific purpose, and her lips purse with annoyance as she glares down at the photographs. Although, she thinks wryly, she can't ignore the fact that she looks happy; she remembers the rather lurid story Emma was telling her and how it genuinely made her laugh.

She can't remember the last time someone did that.

"So some inquisitive little shit has decided to take photographs of you and I having dinner," Regina says with a shrug, holding the photographs back out towards Emma. "It's not a crime, as far as I know, to have dinner with an acquaintance in one's own home."

"Right," Emma says, jabbing a finger towards the sheaf of paper in Regina's hand, "but keep looking. Someone wants the world to know that dinner isn't **all** we've been having."

"What's that supposed to – " Regina begins, shuffling through the photographs, then stops abruptly as her gaze falls upon something that's definitely not dinner and _definitely_ not for public consumption.

"Oh, dear god," she breathes, staring in horror at a very clear, very explicit photograph of herself and Emma, half-naked and wrapped up in one another's arms.

"Which was pretty much my reaction," Emma nods with a sharp jerk of her chin. "Except, you know, I used more colorful words and might have thrown things around my office a bit. Or a **lot**," she adds grimly.

Regina doesn't register Emma's words. In fact, she continues to stare at the photographs in her hands, clutching them tightly so they begin to bend in her grip. Her face pales, the initial bright spots of red anger on her cheeks fading so that her skin looks ashen by comparison. Pressing her lips together, it's a long moment before Regina finally looks up at Emma, her eyes inky and dark.

"It appears," Regina forces out, words coming in staccato little bursts, "that I was wrong about you, Miss Swan."

Confusion foods Emma's features and her frown deepens as she peers into Regina's face, trying to discern what lies beneath the mask of cold anger that sends a chill down her spine. She's seen Regina The Politician before, even seen Regina The Warrior during debates when the Senator had been forced to fend off criticism, sexism and downright misogyny from her so-called colleagues. But this is – Emma swallows – icy. And she can feel Regina's building rage like a hoar frost in winter.

"Yes," Regina nods, before Emma has the wherewithal to speak. "It appears that I misjudged your tenacity and skill, not to mention your journalistic integrity." She lets out a mirthless little laugh and shakes her head before thrusting the sheaf of photographs back at Emma.

"What was it you said to me?" Regina narrows her gaze in remembrance before she draws in a sharp breath and nods. "Oh, that's right – the story behind the story. That's what you're always looking for, isn't it? Tell me, dear, do you get a promotion for not only finding it but manufacturing it as well?"

Emma's stomach dips momentarily and she feels nausea fill the empty spaces inside her. But it's only a moment before a hot surge of offense rises in her throat, burning acrid and making her mouth twist downwards. The photographs fall from her fingers onto the floor where they splay out, each one a testament to the disjoined, broken feeling that's fracturing the air between them. And then her fingers curl into fists and she meets Regina's gaze head on.

"What," Emma hisses, "the hell are you talking about? You think that **I** did this?"

Regina shrugs: a nonchalant, dismissive gesture that only serves to ignite Emma's ire to full blown rage.

"Isn't it in your best interests and those of that rag you work for to discredit me any way you can?"

"Discredit you?" Emma's eyes fly wide and she shakes her head in disbelief. "Come on, Senator, you're an intelligent woman. I know you understand that you're not the only person being discredited by this. Why the hell would I do it to myself?"

"Notoriety," Regina darts back, the veins in her neck throbbing violently. "The story of the decade – how you seduced a Senator into an inadvisable sexual liaison."

Emma snorts and tosses her head, but when she speaks her voice is thick with emotion. "I think there's more than enough seduction going on between you and me to lay the blame on two heads, not one," she growls. "And if you think I'd sleep around in order to get a story, never mind lie about why I wanted to be with you, then you clearly don't know me at all."

"Clearly I don't," Regina retorts, but there's a hurt expression in her eyes that makes her turn her head away, arms wrapping around her torso and holding on tightly.

"I didn't do this," Emma says vehemently, but Regina is silent, not even looking at her. Letting out a huff of sheer frustration, Emma marches forwards a few paces, grabbing Regina's shoulders and backing the other woman up until her body thuds against the front door.

"I **didn't**," Emma repeats. But Regina's mouth is pressed into a firm line, refuting any and all explanations. Emma is beset with the desire to apologize, to somehow assuage the pain she sees on the other woman's face. But as quickly as she feels it, she's overwhelmed with righteous indignation at Regina's accusation, at the mere suggestion that her integrity is somehow diminished by the damning photographs lying on the floor behind them.

"Let go of me," Regina says quietly, through gritted teeth. But Emma can't, and her fingers dig further into Regina's shoulders, eliciting a tiny, surprised gasp from the other woman.

"I know you think my job doesn't matter and that we're all scum," Emma says in a low, strained voice. "But it matters to **me**. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I've worked my ass off for everything I've got, so why would I throw it all away just to expose you as a …"

Now Emma leans back and looks at Regina with something like disgust, the corners of her mouth turning downwards. She lets go of Regina as though she can no longer bear to touch her, fingers crooked in the air for a second before her arms drop down by her sides.

"As what?" Regina dares to challenge, but it's half-hearted as she can see her mistake written across Emma's features in colors of disappointment, pain and resentment. "What am I, Miss Swan?"

Emma's nostrils flare as she swallows down the hurt that wells up in her chest, prickling behind her eyes. She silently chastises herself for believing in something other than the hard facts that she seeks in her job, the political lies she exposes and the people who weave them. People like Regina, who has duped Emma into thinking things she simply has no right to wonder. Emma's angry, but in the moment she looks at Regina, she's not sure whether she more angry at the other woman or at herself.

"I don't know what you are, Regina," Emma says reproachfully. "But I do know that I wasn't responsible for this and if you think that – "

She stops, swallowing hard and biting down on the words she really wants to say. Then, reaching past Regina, Emma twists the handle of the door and yanks it open.

"This is over," is all she says as she leaves and runs down the pathway towards her car.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

The door to Emma's apartment swings open and she peers out from behind it, caution evident in the way her fingers curl stiffly around the edge and her entire body blocks the tiny gap between door and frame. If she's surprised to see Regina outside, she doesn't show it and instead looks the Senator up and down, saying nothing and offering no greeting.

Regina twists her fingers together and hopes she doesn't appear as nervous as she – unfortunately – is. It's taken quite the effort for her to come here: not logistically, of course, because if Senator Regina Mills wants something to happen, then it generally does. But coming here tonight is the result of some rather irritating soul-searching that Regina has always tried to avoid. After all, looking deep inside herself was always a luxury her mother told her she simply couldn't afford, and, after a while, she'd stopped doing it.

It never led anywhere good.

Tonight, however, it's led her to the small apartment block on the east side of town, where middle-class families live middle-class lives in quiet, rather smug middle-class contentment.

Oddly, Regina had never expected Emma Swan to live quite so far into the suburbs as she does and the location of the journalist's apartment had come as a surprise. Quite a pleasant one, in fact.

"Miss Swan," Regina begins, clearing her throat and assuming what she hopes is a contrite enough expression to make Emma open the door and let her in. "I'd like to – "

"No," Emma cuts her off, shaking her head and clinging onto the door as though for dear life itself. Her knuckles whiten as she chews at her lower lip and glances down at the ground for a moment. When she looks up, her eyes are hard, glinting in the yellow light of the hallway. "You've had your fingers inside me, Regina. The **least** you can do is call me by my first name."

Regina's mouth forms a moue of distaste, but she's wise enough not to criticize. Instead, she nods and tries to ignore how different they are, how this never would have worked out – how _could_ it have done? She also tries to ignore how Emma's hair tumbles over her shoulders and how she remembers the taste of Emma's skin, Emma's lips; how vividly the sensation of Emma's body against her own still haunts her dreams.

_No_. She mustn't think about that. Because this is an ending, not a beginning.

"Emma," Regina tries again. "I want to apologize. I was wrong to make assumptions about you based on your profession. But I'm sure you can – "

"Nope," Emma stops her again, this time holding up a hand, palm out. "If you want to apologize, Regina, then apologize. No ifs, no buts, no anything that can absolve you of the basic truth that you thought what we did – what **I** did – was entrapment. If you're sorry, then **be** fucking sorry otherwise get the hell away from my door and leave me alone."

Emma's breathing hard and feels anger, such a familiar emotion over the last week, rise inside her chest again. She tries to tamp down on it and looks away from Regina again because the mere sight of the woman makes her feel things she doesn't want to – not anymore. No; she wants to stay angry, stay alone, brooding inside her apartment and trying to forget Regina Mills exists.

But she _does_ exist and Emma _can't_ forget her. She's never been much of a one for sentimentality and probably never will be, but seeing Regina flutters something around her stomach and she shifts, uncomfortable with what it might mean. What it already does.

"Emma, I **am** sorry," Regina says, her voice breaking a little over an act of contrition that's clearly difficult to make, let alone be heard. Her face is drawn and there are dark circles beneath her eyes as she moves closer to the doorway and she leans in towards Emma, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Please, won't you let me in and we can talk about it?"

"What's to talk about?" Emma shrugs with assumed nonchalance but she visibly flinches as Regina reaches out, sliding her fingers from the door and settling instead for wrapping them around the handle.

"I want to explain – to tell you what I've found out and – and I want to talk," Regina says, her tone insistent, urgent. She can practically feel Emma's hesitancy, hovering in the air between them for a long moment until the blonde sighs and steps back, opening the door and gesturing for Regina to enter the apartment.

The door clicks shut behind her and Regina isn't sure where to go or where to stand. She's agitated and annoyed with herself because this isn't who she is – at least, not who she's been for years. Her wariness of the world and all the people in it comes as second nature now. But as Emma faces her, arms folded over her chest in a stubborn, resolute manner that is all hard edges and brick walls about ten feet high, Regina can't help thinking that trust is a curious thing. It happens whether someone wants it or not.

She never did. Not until now.

"You wanted to explain, or talk, or whatever," Emma grunts, shrugging and shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "So, talk."

"I was wrong to accuse you of being part of those photographs," Regina begins, and Emma rolls her eyes and huffs out a dismissive breath. "I engaged the services of a private investigator and while there's very little he can do to prevent them going public, he's satisfied that you weren't involved."

"Oh, **is** he?" Emma's chin juts forwards and she glares at Regina. "So it took you a week to figure this out?"

"I wanted to be sure," Regina tells her.

"Or you could have just, you know, believed me when I told you that in the **first** place," Emma retorts. "Because I've spent the week fending off my editor who's demanding I write a tell-all story about us and honestly, Regina, there've been a few times over the last seven days when I've damn well wanted to!"

"I'm sorry," Regina says beseechingly and takes a few steps forwards, holding out her hands.

"Sorry you got caught," Emma spits. "You think the entire world revolves around you and **your** needs, Regina. It's like **my** job and **my** career and the reputation I've been fucking building over the last god knows how many years doesn't even matter in all of this!"

"No, it's not like that at all," Regina pleads, but at the back of her mind she knows that Emma's right. That over the last week, she's been so ensconced in protecting herself that she's barely given a second thought to the ramifications this might have for Emma. Emma Swan: the liberal, truth-seeking journalist who, it would seem, has morals far and above what Regina might have expected. Certainly above those of Regina herself.

Emma tugs her hands from her pockets and folds her arms again, staring at Regina so intently that the Senator begins to feel shame creeping up her body and coloring her cheeks. "Then what is it like?" Emma demands.

For the first time in forever, Regina's quite at a loss for words. Her mouth opens, then closes again and her fingers twist around and over one another, clasped together in front of her. She's desperate to say something that will assuage the growing anxiety in her chest, but Emma is glaring at her expectantly and all the things Regina can think of to say seem paltry compensation for what she's done.

Yes; she thinks sadly. Trust happens whether someone wants it to or not. And it disappears in exactly the same way.

"Okay," Emma finally says, unfolding her arms and marching past Regina towards her apartment door, "well…thanks for the chat. Illuminating. Very informative. **So** glad you stopped by." She yanks the door open and stands by it, gazing down at the floor.

"Emma, **please**," Regina wheedles, and winces at the tone of her voice. She hasn't sounded this desperate since those painful days of her childhood when she was weak and her mother was so very strong.

"Please, **what**?" Emma barks, and glances up at Regina, resentment painting red spots across the tops of her cheeks. She takes in the defeated stance of the other woman, how she's about as unlike a proud, regal Senator as it's possible to be, and sighs, aggravated and tired. "Just go," she says, jerking her head towards the doorway. "Just go away, Regina. I'm not going to write anything about us – which will probably lose me my job, in the end – and I'll do as much damage control as I can if and when those photographs are published, okay? You got what you wanted from me. So please, leave me alone."

Regina's two steps towards the door when she stops. Her chest is tight and she knows that if she leaves now, then she'll never be able to come back. She's burned a lot of bridges in her time and watched the flames leap high in the knowledge that it was always the right thing to do. But if she leaves tonight – leaves Emma like this - then Regina's not entirely sure she'll ever be able to rid herself of the terrible, nameless thing that burns inside her for this woman.

"No," Regina says firmly, and puts her hand on the door, pushing it hard enough so that it flies from Emma's fingers and slams shut, startling them both. "This isn't what I wanted. It's not what I want. Not at all."

"Well, it's all you're getting," Emma says, and reaches for the door handle again. Her fingers have almost closed over it when Regina's hand is on her wrist and Emma flinches because the other woman's touch almost seems to burn where their skin meets. She gasps at the contact: it's as visceral and blistering as it was the first time, every time. And in the second that Emma understands that she craves it, she hates that she does and turns to Regina with a lip curled in repudiation.

"I don't need you to do damage control," Regina says quietly, meeting Emma's gaze. "I have an entire office of people to do that. It's what they're paid for."

"So what is it, then? Do you want a quickie for the road? A lasting memory of the precious time we spent together and how meaningful it was to you? Because, let's face it, Regina, **that's** what you really liked the most about me, isn't it?" Emma's voice drips with bitterness and Regina frowns. How has she never noticed the extent to which Emma hates herself? How has she failed to see or hear the lack of care in Emma's actions and words?

"**Isn't** it?" Emma demands, her voice rising to a shrill, pained pitch. She throws Regina's hand off her arm and reaches for the door again. This time, Regina places her palm flat on it by the side of Emma's head, the heel of her hand thudding gently against the wood. Emma backs up as Regina rounds on her, putting her free hand on the other side of Emma's head, effectively trapping the blonde.

"Stop it," Emma whispers, looking almost terrified. But she doesn't move as Regina leans in, close enough so that their lips are almost touching.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Regina says. Emma shudders and turns her head to one side, avoiding the intensity of Regina's gaze.

"I should have believed you," Regina continues, bending her head to gently brush her lips against Emma's neck. "I should have trusted you. I didn't."

"Then why can't you just leave me alone?" Emma chokes out, and when Regina draws back to look at her all she can see are green eyes brimming with tears. "Why do you have to make things worse?"

"Because I'm sorry and I need you to believe me," Regina says softly, her voice dropping to a husky apology. "I need you to trust me. I need you to – "

She's silenced by a mouth on her own, by Emma's hands thrusting into her hair and by the force of a body pressing against hers. Emma's tongue slides inside her mouth and Regina hears herself groan: a wanton sound of utter liberation. It resonates inside her chest and she hears a responding moan come from Emma's lips, buzzing and flooding over her skin and into her veins. They clutch at one another, moving away from the door in uneven, stumbling steps until they're across the room and bumping up against the kitchen counter. Even as Regina lets out a noise of surprise, Emma's kissing her again, mouth hard and insistent.

"I **don't** trust you," Emma mutters, drawing back and pulling at Regina's blazer until it's off the other woman and falling into a heap on the floor. "I don't trust **anyone**," she adds, fingers working swiftly to undo the buttons on Regina's blouse, "because that's when they can hurt you the most."

Regina tries to catch her breath because this shouldn't be happening; it's not a wise decision and won't lead to anything good. But she knows what it _will_ lead to, and she wants that right now more than she wants reason or to exercise caution. It hasn't been like this with anyone else, not for years; perhaps not ever.

Emma is a compulsion that Regina can't resist, not matter how much she tries to tell herself she can. And as she curls her fingers around Emma's neck and pulls the other woman's mouth back onto her own again, Regina knows that the more this happens, the less chance there is that she'll break the habit. The less chance there is that she'll want to.

The kitchen counter digs into the small of her back as Emma shoves her back against it and somewhere at the back of her mind Regina knows that it will probably leave a bruise. But perhaps that's well deserved – maybe _all_ of this is, she thinks. She fumbles with the button on Emma's jeans, cursing how tight they are in her head before she manages to thrust her hand past stiff denim, fingertips diving inside underwear and touching skin that's sensitive enough to make Emma let out a cry and jerk her hips forwards.

"Fuck," Emma hisses, as Regina's fingers move lower, nails scraping over her clitoris and pulsating a throb of sensation down her entire body, weakening her knees and making her fall against Regina.

"That's the general idea," Regina murmurs, working her hand even further into Emma's jeans and turning them both around so that now Emma is pushed up against the kitchen counter, head thrown back, neck exposed to the nips and kisses that Regina's mouth lays down its length.

Regina can feel the hard teeth of the zipper on Emma's jeans biting into the back of her hand, but she can also feel how wet the other woman is. She puts a hand onto the kitchen counter to steady herself, pinning Emma against the hard wood. Her fingers slip so easily inside Emma, through eager, wet flesh and Regina begins to work them in and out of the other woman. It's messy and far from ideal, but it's all they have and all they want right now. Emma's head bends forwards, resting on Regina's shoulder and she moves her hips back and forth, quicker and quicker, greedy for climax.

Angling her thumb as best she can, Regina presses it against Emma's hard clitoris, drawing a guttural moan from the blonde. Emma's arms wind around Regina and she clings to the other woman like she's drowning, like she's falling and needs someone to catch her before she hits the bottom. She can't be sure, but Emma thinks she hears Regina telling her that she's okay, that she's safe, and she can't help letting out a faint, sobbing cry of laughter.

There's nothing safe about this – there never was. And perhaps that's why they do it, Emma thinks, as she spins on a whirling tip of rising emotion and sensation and everything that drives her forwards and makes her press up against Regina. She feels it inside of her – that growing sensation that's too big to be contained, and when she gives a keening wail and starts to shudder, she lets it all out, her cries muffled against Regina's skin.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	5. Chapter 5 - Reprieve

Emma walks into the bedroom holding two mugs of steaming coffee in one hand and a huge plate in the other. She kicks the door shut behind her and the noise rouses Regina, who has almost fallen back to sleep again in the time Emma's been gone. Sleepily pushing herself up in the bed, Regina shoves at her hair, silently bemoaning the fact that, at some point, she's going to have to do a Senatorial version of a walk of shame and leave Emma's apartment in clothes that are now crumpled and lying in a heap on a chair in the corner of the room.

"Breakfast," Emma announces, placing the mugs onto the bedside table then hopping up onto the bed, crossing her legs and balancing the plate across them.

Regina takes in Emma's attire: plaid pajama pants and a tight, white tank top, and she rolls her eyes a little and sighs. She's wearing much the same, only there's an oversized t-shirt instead of a tank top and the flannel pants she's wearing are a rather garish shade of pink.

"They're my emergency clothes," Emma says, noting how Regina is looking down at her pants and t-shirt with something like alarm. "You know, for laundry day when you've got nothing clean to…"

She trails off and ducks her head, laughing against her chest. Because what the _hell_ does a US Senator know about laundry and panicking because there's no underwear that's remotely clean enough to wear or wondering if it's possible to get away with the shirt that has a tiny stain on the front and if anyone will notice?

"Nothing clean to wear, yes," Regina says, and Emma lifts her head, narrowing her gaze as she stares at the other woman. Regina sighs and purses her lips a little. "I **am** aware of the concept, dear. I was a college student, too."

"Yeah, so was I ten years ago," Emma grumbles. "But let's not imagine that your life and mine have anything in common. You went to Brown, right?"

"Smith, actually," Regina corrects her, and Emma can't suppress the grin that springs to her lips, sniggering enough to make one of Regina's eyebrows rise in silent question.

"They say Smith has a reputation for being full of lesbians," Emma qualifies, taking the plate off her lap and putting it onto the bed between them as Regina makes herself comfortable, drawing her knees up in front of her.

"Well, that's where you're wrong," Regina admonishes haughtily, then a sly smile creeps across her mouth as she reaches for one of the mugs of coffee and takes a long, grateful sip. "It's actually **half** full of lesbians."

Emma chortles and shakes her head, running fingers through her long hair and pushing it back over her shoulders. "Either way, that explains a **lot**," she says, winking conspiratorially. She picks up a slice of toast from the plate, smothered in far too much strawberry jam and takes a huge bite, chomping down with a crunch and adding, "I **told** you it was the best head I've ever had."

Regina's cheeks flush a little and she clears her throat, averting her gaze from Emma, whose eyes twinkle merrily at her. She hates being teased and it's been a long time since anyone's dared to make fun of her in such an intimate, personal way. But there's a warmth to Emma's gaze and Regina can't help letting it fill her up, bringing light to the darker parts of herself that she's hidden away for so many years.

The plate appears underneath her nose and Regina looks up as Emma gestures to it with her chin. Gingerly, Regina picks up a slice of toast and nibbles at the corner of it. She hears a faint snort of laughter from Emma but it's not malicious; in fact, Regina thinks, there's very little about Emma Swan that is. How incongruous that seems with the cutthroat world of journalism and Emma's reputation within it.

"What did you mean when you said I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth?" Regina asks quietly, swallowing the toast and wincing a little as Emma takes another huge bite and chews on it thoughtfully, shrugging at her.

"Everyone knows about your background," Emma says. "Daughter of an industrialist, heir to the whole shebang, educated at the best schools in Europe, went to Smith," she nods and smiles at her earlier mistake, "then worked in local politics, became Mayor of a small town in Maine, Congresswoman and now…Senator Mills."

She waves her half-eaten piece of toast around with a flourish and cocks her head onto one side. "Am I right?"

Regina sips at her coffee again and hums in vague assent. "Factually, yes," she answers. "All of that's true, but my father worked twelve hour days or longer and I rarely saw him when I was growing up, then of course I was sent away to boarding school so my relationship with my parents was…difficult, at best." She replaces her coffee cup on the bedside table and frowns, remembering years of distance and isolation. She'd been offered opportunities befitting the woman her mother wanted her to be – everything except the warmth and affection that she'd craved as a girl.

"I know that feeling," Emma mumbles, her voice muffled through a mouthful of toast. "I grew up in the foster system so I didn't really have parents. Well, not ones that didn't end up sending me back, anyway. I mean, it was pretty shitty but I worked hard in school and got into a pretty decent college so I guess it wasn't all bad."

"You were a foster child?" Regina says, eyes widening a little. "I didn't know that."

"Why would you? I'm the one who writes the stories; **you're** the one who's in them. The only thing people want to know about me is that I can write a sentence and use a semi-colon properly."

"And **can** you?" Regina asks, mouth turning up at the corners in a faint smile.

Emma snorts and tosses her head. "Please. Punctuation is like, my super power."

"I thought seeking out the truth was your super power," Regina intones, laughter lilting in her voice.

"Yeah," Emma shrugs, "truth and punctuation. Nobility **and** good grammar."

"Oh, be still my heart," Regina sighs melodramatically, pressing a palm to her chest.

Emma chuckles and stretches out a leg, shoving her foot against Regina's until the other woman makes a noise of affront and mock-glowers at her.

"Stop being an asshole to me and eat your toast," Emma orders. Regina sighs and takes a bite, strawberry jam oozing over her lips and fingers. She drops what's left of the toast back onto the plate and makes a disgruntled noise as she licks the jam from her upper lip, gazing malevolently at her fingers, smeared with red.

Emma pushes the plate to one side and rises up, crawling forwards on all fours until she's leaning over Regina's knees. She clasps the other woman's wrist in her hand and slowly brings the jam-covered fingers to her mouth, the tip of her tongue sneaking out to lick at them before she plunges them between her lips and sucks on them, hard. She can hear the gasp that comes from Regina and laughs gently, pressing the fingers to the roof of her mouth with her tongue, licking between them until she pushes against the soft, malleable flesh between each digit. Regina groans, and Emma pulls the fingers from her mouth, sitting back on her haunches with a self-satisfied smirk on her lips.

"You taste very, **very** good, Senator," Emma murmurs, and is pleased to see how Regina shifts in the bed, uncomfortable and flattered all at the same time.

"Miss Swan, really," Regina says, letting out a breathy, self-conscious laugh and rather enjoying how Emma bristles at the formal use of her name. "When I came here last night and said I wanted to talk, I meant it."

"Oh, I know," Emma grins widely, then lifts her hands and places them over Regina's knees, pushing them down. "But we can talk later."

Regina lets out a disgruntled little noise as Emma throws a leg over her thighs, straddling her. But she can't deny the way her body comes alive at Emma's touch; the way her chest tightens and her skin hums with need. She wonders if it will always be this way – Regina's slept with enough people to know that sexual desire is something she's always found easily sated, but with this woman her hunger will simply not abate – and can't help how her arms instinctively reach for Emma, hands sliding around the blonde's slender waist.

This is the problematic part of everything, Regina tells herself. The part where she can't stop touching Emma. The part where, when Emma touches _her_, everything else just fades away.

They kiss, and Regina can taste the sweetness of strawberry jam. She smiles against Emma's mouth and feels the blonde hook her fingers beneath the hem of the baggy t-shirt, pushing it upwards. Emma's nails scrape gently over her skin and, as they reach her ribs, Regina draws back, brushing them off and letting the t-shirt fall back over her body.

"Ticklish?" Emma asks, cocking her head to one side. Regina looks up at her, eyes hooded and Emma catches her breath because for all the times she's seen the Senator command a room of unruly men or send journalists scuttling from a press conference with her sharp tongue and quick wits, Emma's never seen anything like the woman in front of her right now. Regina looks younger, softer, more vulnerable and just…_freer_, somehow: unencumbered.

Regina opens her mouth as though to speak and then stops herself, teeth chewing pensively on her lower lip. She lifts up her hand and takes some of Emma's hair in her fingers, rubbing it between finger and thumb. It's a gesture borne of affection, not withholding, so Emma just waits expectantly, her palms lying flat on the top of Regina's thighs.

"You're different," Regina says softly, and Emma frowns a little. "Than the others, I mean," Regina qualifies. "You were so terribly angry with me and so upset last night and – "

"Sssh," Emma's hands curve and her fingers press into Regina's legs. "I get it. You have to protect yourself."

"No, it's not that," Regina insists, and combs her fingers through Emma's hair, right to the end of each strand. "I'm **so** sorry – the way I spoke to you – it was unforgiveable."

"Yeah? Well, you're just going to have to think of a way to make it up to me then, aren't you?" Emma says, her gaze darkening. She leans in and kisses Regina; it's hard and demanding, her tongue sliding over Regina's lips and into her mouth. Regina moans deep in her throat and she clutches at Emma, but the blonde makes a tiny sound of protest and shoves at Regina.

Shaking her head, Emma takes hold of the hem of the t-shirt again and, this time, slides it up the length of Regina's torso, lifting it over her head. Regina's arms are above her head and Emma bunches the t-shirt around her wrists, binding them together. She hears Regina's wavering breath of anticipation and then bends her head to capture the other woman's mouth with her own, kissing her until they're both breathing heavily, lips wet and messy against the other's.

Emma mumbles something unintelligible against Regina's cheek, breathing her in, wanting to consume her completely. She tugs on the t-shirt, yanking Regina's arms back until they hit the metal railing of her headboard and then Emma lifts her head, looking into Regina's eyes. They're inky black and Emma shivers a little, willing to be entirely subsumed by them, by Regina herself.

"Show me you're sorry," Emma finally says, her voice thick. "Don't tell me – **show** me." Her eyes are glittering with intent as she twists the t-shirt around the metal railing and presses Regina's hands to the cold steel. Regina nods silently, trepidation tightening her chest as Emma's hands move to her neck, fingers trailing over her clavicle, then further down to where her breasts are rising and falling with the increasingly short breaths she's taking. Regina's fingers curl around the metal rail above her head as Emma's fingers trickle sensation over the swell of her breasts, lingering around her nipples until they're teased into hard peaks. When Emma pinches them between finger and thumb, Regina arches her back towards the blonde's touch and lets out a low, agonized groan of sheer pleasure, closing her eyes.

Emma knows she's wet; she can feel want throbbing between her thighs and snatches her hands away from Regina's flesh, wanting to savor the moment, reaching for restraint. Regina opens her eyes and looks at Emma – a gaze of liquid heat that makes Emma's throat go dry, heartbeat racing.

No; she _can't_ wait. Not when Regina's half naked and squirming on the bed, fingers clenching around the railing above her head as her breath comes fast and hard. Emma removes her tank top, scrambles out of her pajama pants and returns to her position astride Regina's thighs. She can feel Regina's gaze on her naked body, avaricious and hungry for her; it makes her smile despite the incessant ache between her legs.

"I **was** going to fuck you," Emma grinds out, leaning forwards so that she can wrap her hand around Regina's where they're clasping the metal railing of the headboard. "But now I think…well…"

She laughs: a deep, throaty sound, and plunges her fingers down between her thighs; they're held in place by the pressure she's exerting on Regina's legs. Thrusting inside herself, Emma gasps as two of her fingers find her clitoris and she begins to circle them around the most sensitive part of it. Regina glances up, seeing Emma's hand on her own and she knows that she's trapped, unable to touch Emma when she most wants to. She lets out a groan of dismay as Emma draws closer, leaning in so that they're close enough to kiss. Almost.

"Are you sorry now?" Emma hisses, her mouth falling open, voice harsh with desire.

Regina nods speechlessly, captivated by the sight of Emma on top of her, a swaying column of flesh that she wants so very much to reach for and can't, denied by Emma's fierce expression and the increasing pressure of the blonde's hand on her own. Her mouth is dry and her hips begin to move on the bed, rolling and pushing upwards so that Emma sucks in a sharp breath and bites at her bottom lip.

Emma's head drops as she begins to move her fingers a little faster, pressing down hard onto her clitoris and moaning loudly as sensation races up and down her body. Her hair falls over her shoulders onto Regina's skin with tiny pinpricks of feeling and Emma's back arches as she bends over the surge of release that she's desperately trying to hold back. Her neck bends; her head drops onto Regina's shoulder and she sucks in a huge lungful of air, holds it, and hears her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

"Emma."

Regina's voice is close to her ear and Emma grips the other woman's hands even tighter in her own because if Regina tells her something, if Regina encourages her or beseeches her right now, she'll lose control and plunge into the abyss of climax that's waiting for her – surely just seconds away.

"Emma, I truly **am** sorry. I know you think trusting someone means they can hurt you. But I don't want to be like those people." Regina's voice is grated, husky with emotion and the uncooperative dryness of her throat. "I don't want to hurt you," she forces out.

Emma moans in what sounds like pain, what feels like relief. She pushes her forehead against Regina's shoulder and drives in deeper with her fingers, letting them slide from her clitoris to dip inside of herself and then back out again. They return to her swollen clitoris and it's so sensitive that she whimpers as she touches herself again and again, fingertips bumping and sliding around and over its hardness.

"Come for me, Emma," Regina whispers, her breath a hot flood of air across Emma's cheek. "Please come for me."

And Emma does, in a rush of bubbling, surging light and noise and everything that she's been holding back. She lifts her head from Regina's body and throws it back, opening her mouth and releasing a loud cry as her body begins to shudder and shake. She lets go of Regina's hand and feels warmth as two arms wrap around her torso, holding her tightly as Regina's head buries into her chest.

Opening her eyes, Emma lets the room swim into view and looks around with a rising sense of panic because this – this feeling and this woman in her bed and the games they've played and will continue to do so – feels _right_. It feels more right than anything else has in god knows how long. Her throat begins to thicken with emotion as she allows Regina to embrace her and coax her back down again to reality. But that's the encroaching problem that Emma understands only too well. _Reality_. Because in this bed, anything is possible.

But Emma knows that outside this room, outside her apartment, reality is waiting. And in the real world, she and Regina simply shouldn't be together.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Emma's lying with her head on Regina's chest and it feels safe. The fears that plagued her are starting to dissipate, chased away by the warmth of Regina's arms around her and the way that the other woman is drawing lazy circles on her back with her index finger. Emma knows that it's odd: this intimacy between them that's bound in the comfort they seem to glean from one another. In such a short space of time, it shouldn't feel this good or this strong. And they've both been taught not to trust by the lies people are willing to tell, the ways in which people betray and subvert for their own gain.

Neither of them are innocents, of course, Emma thinks. She knows that she's been willing to bend the truth in order to protect herself or advance through a profession that was – and still _is_ – largely dominated by men. And Regina…well, Regina's a politician and lying comes as second nature to her kind.

So it's strange that they've both pledged themselves to honesty. It's terrifying, after all, when one has lived a life layered by necessary untruths, that the desire to peel back those layers and present themselves, emotionally naked and raw, exists at all.

Emma can't help smiling a little as she turns her head and presses her cheek against Regina's chest. Emotionally naked is difficult, but physically naked has never been a problem either of them have had, so it seems. At least, not with one another.

"I can hear your heart beating," Emma murmurs.

The finger on her back swoops down around the bottom of her shoulder blade, then back up between them to the base of her neck. "You sound surprised, dear," Regina says, her voice rumbling into Emma's ear.

Emma rises up, propping up her head on one hand and raises her eyebrows as she shrugs a little. "Gotta admit, Regina, knowing you over the last few years, I was starting to think you didn't have a heart at all."

Regina's eyes narrow as Emma gazes down at her, then she draws in a breath and shakes her head a little where it lies on the pillow. "I can't decide what attracts me more," she says dryly. "Whether it's your innate charm or your inability to keep a single thought inside of your head."

"Oh, I can keep thoughts private," Emma says blithely, then her mouth quirks up at one side in a salacious grin. "I've had plenty of thoughts about you I haven't shared with anyone."

"I'm sure you have," Regina hums. "I imagine this week you were plotting all sorts of terrible ways to hurt me."

Emma sobers a little and looks pensive, shifting in the bed so that her legs are tangled with Regina's. She hitches a little closer to the other woman, hand sliding under the covers to rest on Regina's stomach, thumb stroking gently over the skin there.

"I might have experienced some…" She trails off, holding her breath for a second, because she still isn't sure why she was so disproportionately upset and so full of rage towards Regina. "Less than charitable thoughts," she finishes, with a wry smile.

"Mmhmm," Regina grimaces a little. "If those thoughts were about who was going to help you move my cold, dead body, then get in line. I have more than a few enemies, as well you know," she adds.

"Comes with the territory, I guess." Emma is equivocal and Regina hums in agreement because they've both experienced enough hostility towards them in their separate fields to empathize with one another. They exchange a sympathetic glance and then Emma reaches up and pushes a strand of hair from Regina's forehead. "Except I wouldn't need any help moving your body," she adds with a wink. "I work out."

"Emma…" Regina sighs gently, but she can't help smiling.

"And even if I **did** need help, I don't have anyone to ask," Emma continues. "This might come as a surprise, but I have even fewer friends than you do."

"Emma!" Regina shoves at the blonde, eyes wide and affronted. She even goes so far as to shift a few inches away in the bed until Emma, assuming an expression of utter contrition – complete with puppy dog eyes – moves towards her. She drops her head and places a kiss onto Regina's shoulder, hooking her leg over the other woman's once more and moving into the warmth of another body beside her own.

"Here's the thing," Emma says, settling her head back onto her hand again, "I was pissed at you because you didn't believe me when I told you the truth. And the crazy thing is that I know you had **every** reason not to because I'm a journalist and – "

"But – " Regina opens her mouth in protest until Emma reaches up and puts her fingers over Regina's lips, silencing her.

"Because I'm a journalist and, yeah, we can be pretty despicable when there's dirt to be found on someone. But the weird thing is that I didn't even think that was why you didn't believe me – not at first." Emma pauses and slides her finger from Regina's lips, frowning a little. In the week that had passed, there had been time to reflect and, Emma thinks grimly to herself, to brood. But the conclusions she'd come to hadn't helped to assuage the hurt she'd felt, nor had they offered any real explanation as to why this always, _always_ seemed to happen to her.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, Regina; the sex is great. It's really, **really**…" Emma looks heavenward for inspiration and finds none. "It's really great," she says lamely.

"Such the wordsmith," Regina murmurs with a faint smile. "I can see why you're so valued in the journalistic community."

"See?" Emma throws up a hand in the air and lets it slap back onto her thigh. "That's what I'm talking about."

"Your inability to describe our sex life?" Regina asks, aware that she's poking a potentially dangerous bear, but unable to resist.

"No!" Emma sighs, exasperated. She knows Regina's only joking, but it feels like this is the crux of who they are – both individually and to one another. "This thing we do – " she waves a finger in the tiny space between them, " – where we act like we hate each other. Except we don't, do we?"

She blinks as Regina looks at her, then smiles warmly and lifts a hand, placing her palm against Emma's cheek.

"No, we don't," Regina says.

"And I thought if you **didn't** hate me, and if we'd spent time together not just fucking and not hating one another, then maybe…just **maybe** you might think I was telling you the truth about those photographs. But you didn't. So I figured that you did hate me after all and that the times in between the really great sex were just polite conversation or something else just as meaningless. That maybe the problem isn't that I'm a journalist, but that I'm…well…**me**."

It comes out in a bit of a rush and Emma's somewhat breathless when she finishes, or perhaps it's just that her confession has made her heart pick up apace. She's not one for pillow talk, and definitely not when it involves someone like Regina Mills. But then, Emma's never bedded a Senator before – and not one who is looking curiously at her now as though for the first time.

Emma leans back as Regina's hand slides from her face, brows knitting together in consternation. Regina presses her lips together, deep in thought for a moment, then pushes herself up onto one elbow so that she and Emma are face to face.

"I told you that you're not like the others," Regina says quietly. "And you're not."

"The others who?" Emma's frown deepens.

"The people you work with, the people I work with," Regina says in a flat tone that is full of the bored dismissal of those who want to challenge her and those who don't challenge her enough. "When I first went into politics, I was warned about the power of the press and how important it is to have it on one's side. My mother used to tell me that perception is everything, and that I could shape that perception if I wanted to, by courting the favor of the press. And, believe me, I tried. I still do. But the truth is that if people want to bring you down, they'll do it anyway, no matter how much you promise them or show benevolence towards them."

She puts her hand onto Emma's naked shoulder and strokes it in a long line down to cover the back of Emma's fingers, patting them gently, just once.

"My instinct, Emma, was to assume that you didn't want anything more from me other than a good story. Something to enhance your career and tarnish mine." Regina sees how Emma's eyes widen and how her mouth opens to offer rebuttal, so she pats the blonde's hand again and strokes her thumb over the back of it. "And it has **nothing** to do with you. In fact, it's got everything to do with me. I suppose that, somewhere along the line, I simply stopped imagining that people were trustworthy, or that they wanted me for anything other than a taste of the power they supposed I possessed."

Emma turns her hand, linking her fingers with Regina's and squeezes it gently. "So we're kind of stupid, then."

Regina snorts softly. "You speak for yourself, dear."

"Okay," Emma grins wryly. "Speaking for myself, if people found out that we were sleeping together – never mind doing anything more meaningful – which they probably will when these photographs surface, my reputation's going to mean shit. Everyone will think I'm in your pocket, not just your bed."

"And everyone will think I'm the least impartial politician in Washington," Regina nods. "Not to mention anywhere else."

"So…what do you want. From me, I mean."

A hundred different scenarios and propositions enter Regina's mind, tumbling over one another in a flood of eager want that she knows she has no right to demand or even feel. She's wanted very little other than anything pertaining to her career for so long that she realizes now how much she's put aside; how much she's told herself wasn't necessary.

Now she knows differently. Because even the luxury of having someone to talk to, someone to touch, someone to laugh with…it's beyond anything she's allowed herself to want for years.

"I suppose…" Regina begins, then laughs because to say it out loud is excruciatingly embarrassing for a woman of her years and experience, and she's eschewed conversations like these in favor of fleeting sexual encounters where there was simply nothing to say, nothing to expect and nothing to owe. "I suppose I just want you to be **you**. And to trust me. And for me to be able to trust you."

"Is that all?" Emma scoffs, but it's half-hearted and she feels a tugging in her chest that tells her she wants the exact same thing. "Because you know I don't – "

"Trust anyone? Yes, I heard you last night, Emma. Loud and clear."

"I grew up wrong," Emma blurts shamefully, and dips her head so that she doesn't have to see the pity in Regina's gaze. "I grew up trusting people and having them betray me and it…it **sucks**, you know? To be the way I am now, always waiting for someone to leave or screw me up or take advantage of my better nature. So I guess I just…I just stopped having one, in the end, you know?"

She glances up at Regina and is shocked to see an absence of pity in the other woman's eyes. No judgment. No condescension. Only a warmth of understanding and an incline of Regina's head to acknowledge that betrayal doesn't always happen to the disenfranchised. It's an odd sort of connection to have with someone so very different to herself, but it's something, Emma thinks. It's _something_.

"Then, how about this," Regina suggests. "I won't leave today. And neither of us has to make promises we can't keep for tomorrow, yes?" As if to emphasize her point, she scoots down in the bed and puts her head back onto the pillow, sliding her arms around Emma and pulling the blonde down against her.

"And what do we do when tomorrow comes?" Emma asks in a small voice.

"I don't know," Regina answers honestly. "But I'll be here when it does, so perhaps we'll be able to parse through it together."

"Careful," Emma warns, putting her head onto Regina's shoulder and allowing the other woman to draw her close. "That sounds vaguely like a relationship."

"Don't be ridiculous, dear," Regina tells her in a somewhat prosaic tone. "Relationships are for people who don't have their private lives plastered all over the front page of some filthy gossip-mongering tabloid. I'm just suggesting that before that happens – which it undoubtedly will – we should enjoy what this is."

"Oh yeah?" Emma grumbles, but nestles in closer to the warmth of Regina's body. "And what about afterwards – what about after people see those photographs?"

"I don't know," Regina says.

And the problem that prickles at the back of her neck; the issue that's lingering around the edges of her mind and clouding her thoughts is precisely that. When it comes to Emma Swan and how this might possibly – incredibly – work in both their favors, Regina simply doesn't have a clue.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	6. Chapter 6 - Unconventional Participation

Emma opens her eyes in a moment that flies from peaceful slumber to rude awakening. She's always woken that way, blinking into the light and suddenly alert, just in case. It's a habit formed from her days in the foster system, where she simply _had_ to be as awake as possible for as much time as possible; there was always something happening – some kid crying, some foster parent barking orders, something that never quite let her rest as much as she'd needed. It had led to a feeling of being unsafe and, in the seconds before Emma registers that she's in her own apartment – a place she truly calls home – there's a look of distinct unease on her face.

Then she catches sight of her familiar surroundings – the framed copy of her first headline page; the series of black and white photographs of skylines, reminding her that the world is as open to her now as it was closed when she was a child. She can go anywhere, do anything…be anyplace.

Emma breathes. She breathes deeply and thankfully because she never got to do that as a child: just breathe. Not really.

If she's found peace, then it's been manufactured by her own hand and created from a past that has been anything but. Still, she thinks, sitting up in bed and stretching her arms above her head, she intends to enjoy it.

Although, Emma glances at the empty bed beside her, she hadn't planned on enjoying it alone this particular morning. She can remember falling asleep beside Regina; or, more accurately, wrapped up in her. She's never been much of a hugger and physical affection is something Emma's never really been comfortable with. But holding Regina in her arms and feeling the other woman hold her right back felt good.

Actually, Emma corrects herself silently, it felt _more_ than good. Which was probably bad, given their predicament. Given that they didn't really have much in common. And probably never would.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Emma reaches for her pajamas and tank top, and slides them on, shaking out her hair. She pads across the bedroom towards the door and pauses when she hears Regina on the other side.

"For god's sake, Kathryn!" Regina's voice rises impatiently. "I wanted to have one goddamn day to myself and you're ready to call in a search party."

There's a short silence as whoever it is on the other end of the line – Kathryn Nolan, Emma assumes: Regina's Chief of Staff – says something and then Regina lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Yes, well, that doesn't surprise me at all. And if you're going to try and remind me about duty, then don't bother. I've had enough of that from my mother to last a lifetime."

Another silence, then Regina lets out a mirthless bark of laughter. "No, I'm sure she doesn't know about that. It'd probably give her a heart attack. On second thoughts, maybe we should send her copies, in that case, assuming she actually does **have** a heart."

Emma strains to hear but can't discern anything on the other end of the line – not at this distance and not through the bedroom door, anyway.

"I **am** taking this seriously," Regina sighs again, and Emma can just imagine how the other woman is rolling her eyes right now. "But you don't have to worry about her; she won't be a problem."

A pang of alarm shoots through Emma's chest and she can feel her body tense up instinctively. She assumes that "today" is over now. This is "tomorrow". And Regina's going to leave because that's what she has to do. It was always inevitable, even when they were ensconced in one another's arms, even when they were lost in a passionate embrace. Even when Regina whispered things she had no right to and Emma believed them when she knew she shouldn't.

"It doesn't matter how I know," Regina snaps, breaking Emma out of her dismal reverie. "And I'm not sure it's wise to divulge those sorts of details over the phone, Kathryn. I'll be in the office later today; perhaps we can have a civilized conversation about this instead of you chomping at the bit to make statements to the press."

Emma hears a faint beeping sound as Regina ends the call and then nothing. Steeling herself, she opens the bedroom door and walks into the living area. Regina is standing by the kitchen counter, her cellphone clutched in one hand, the other pressed onto the counter itself, palm down. She's gazing at the floor, her face drawn in lines of displeasure. Regina is wearing her skirt – straight and tight and well-tailored even though it's a little creased – and just her bra. Even though she's scowling, she looks impossibly beautiful and Emma's throat goes dry.

It's a moment before Regina registers Emma's presence, her head snapping up and turning to look at the blonde. Her face softens immediately and she glances down at her cellphone before releasing her grip and letting it clatter onto the kitchen counter.

"I'm sorry if I woke you, dear," Regina says, somewhat regal even in her state of undress. "My Chief of Staff insisted on panicking because I wasn't at home. Apparently she's been calling me all night. Whoever took those photographs decided, very kindly, to send a missive to my office regarding what a political scandal might do to my chances of re-election. I know it's a couple of years away, but the voting public are so very fickle these days…"

It's clear that she's putting a brave face on it, as she looks tired and wan. But Regina waves her hand in the air with lazy dismissal and shakes her head as she moves towards Emma.

"I thought I'd let you sleep – that's alright, isn't it?" Regina touches her gently on the arm and Emma takes a step back, away from the other woman. It elicits a tiny frown on Regina's brow and she tilts her head to one side, gazing at Emma.

"Who doesn't your Chief of Staff have to worry about, Regina?" Emma asks, jaw jutting out. "Is it me? Am I a problem solved, now?"

"Emma," Regina sighs, and there's a tired lilt to her voice.

"No," Emma spits. "Don't **Emma** me! Politicians survive scandals, Regina. Journalists like me get fired for them. And don't think my editor isn't breathing down my neck for me to spill about you and I, because he is. And he told me in no uncertain terms that I either write it for him, or I won't write anything else ever again!"

She's literally vibrating with anger and has no idea where it came from. All she knows is that the woman in front of her has allegiances that have nothing to do with Emma; nothing to do with anything they might have talked about or wanted. And it makes her furious to imagine that she'll come up short should Regina choose to do a reckoning of what she has and what she'll lose. She's even more angry that she cares.

Regina's lips press into a hard line and she says nothing, but her eyes gleam with prescient ire. It's tantamount to her training and poise as a politician that even in her state of rather disheveled undress she can still appear intimidating. She gathers herself stiffly and stalks past Emma without a word, as regally as she's able in her stockinged feet.

Emma's hand darts out and wraps around Regina's wrist, staying the woman's progress. She comes to a halt but doesn't turn, instead staring straight ahead at the bedroom door. Her back is tense, a muscle moving beneath the skin of her right shoulder blade; neck rigid and uncompromising.

"I'm – I'm sorry," Emma says in a rush of apology. "I didn't mean to – "

"Of course you didn't, dear." Regina's voice is clipped; she still doesn't turn to look at Emma. "It's fine. Now, I should really get dressed and leave."

Emma stares at the planes of Regina's back and remembers tracing those same lines with her fingers, lips, tongue. Desire roils in her stomach and is quickly followed by regret because whichever way she puts it, Emma knows that sex alone isn't enough to engender longevity. And _she's_ not enough to compensate for the things that sex simply can't provide.

"Back to reality, right?" Emma says, and she can see Regina visibly relax, her shoulders dropping.

"Something like that," Regina answers, and finally turns to look at Emma. There's no malice in her gaze, only a weary expression that floods her face with something like empathy.

"I know you're worried about your job," Regina says gently, "and I am too. But not for the reasons you think. You're right, politicians have survived worse than this."

She laughs bitterly and rolls her eyes. "**Presidents** have survived worse than this."

"But you **are** worried," Emma finally speaks, and Regina takes a breath and holds it, nodding her head.

"It's always hard to anticipate what the RNC will make of it," Regina tells her.

"Because I'm a woman?"

"Actually, that might be the least of our worries," Regina inclines her head and smiles at Emma. "I'm no Tammy Baldwin but I think in this day and age, having a gay representative in the Senate might actually work in the party's favor. But you aren't just a woman, Emma. You're a journalist and a Democrat – quite openly so. You represent too many conflicts of interest, from an outsider's point of view."

"Wow," Emma mumbles, her face screwed up into an expression of disappointment. "I'm like, the trifecta of liberalism. How **dreadful** for you all."

"Your sarcasm, as always, is much appreciated," Regina intones, and Emma lets go of her wrist, stepping back a little. "And also inherently helpful, thank you."

"Yeah, okay," Emma scrubs her face with a hand, not entirely sure she isn't still asleep and that this is just a bad dream about how, when things go wrong for her, they usually go about as badly as it's possible to get. "But your party isn't exactly known for being soft on issues that relate to, you know, human beings."

One of Regina's eyebrows rises towards her hairline and she folds her arms over her chest. "Believe me, if it really were **my** party then I'd be distinctly less worried about being drawn into some sort of tawdry scandal that focuses on my personal life as opposed to my activity as a politician."

"Tawdry," Emma repeats softly. "Nice, thanks."

Regina rolls her eyes a little and makes a dismissive little clucking sound with her tongue. "You really have to stop taking things so personally," she tells Emma. "This isn't really about you and I, as much as you might like to think it is."

"Then what **is** it about?" Emma asks, lifting her chin and glaring at Regina. "Because there's only you and me having sex or…or doing whatever it is we're doing, right?"

"I think that calling it just sex is perhaps a little naïve at this point," Regina inclines her head and there's something of a rueful smile on her lips. "If that was all I wanted, then believe me, I'd have it."

"I don't doubt that for a second," Emma retorts. She can't help wondering how many interns and political wannabes have fallen under Regina's magnetism and undeniable charm; how many of them have been victims to the hardened edges that Regina displays so easily, too.

"The truth of the matter is that women are held to a different set of standards than men," Regina sighs, "and never more so than in the political world. I know you understand that."

"If you mean do I understand what misogyny is, then yeah, you bet your ass I do," Emma says, lip curling in repudiation of everything she's witnessed and experienced.

"Then you understand why I'm concerned," Regina says. "I'm not ashamed of who I am, Emma. It's just that my career was always a priority and sometimes there are things that need to be put aside in favor of that. Things that make other people uncomfortable, not me."

Emma frowns because there's no regret on Regina's face, but merely a blank sort of acceptance. She takes a step closer to the other woman and peers into her face, cocking her head onto one side. The Regina Mills she's come to know over the last few years through her work, not to mention the woman she's come to know far more intimately than that is, Emma thinks, a warrior. Never one to back down from a fight and never one to blithely accept things the way they are.

But the woman in front of her now seems…defeated, somehow. And Emma isn't sure she likes that at all.

"Other people…like the RNC, you mean?" Emma suggests.

"Perhaps, when I first went into politics," Regina hums and nods briefly. "I think things have changed a little – for the better. But no, I wasn't really talking about them."

"Then who are you talking about?" Emma persists. Regina looks at her and there's hesitation written across her features, along with the sort of worry that puts twin lines between her eyes. She opens her mouth to say something then thinks better of it, instead gesturing towards the kitchen and moving past Emma to the counter.

"I made coffee," she says. "Why don't I pour us both a cup and then we can sit and talk for a while."

"Don't you have to go running back to your Chief of Staff and shut this thing down before it blows up?" Emma responds grimly.

Regina's already in the kitchen, clattering cups together and glowering into the sink. "Don't you ever clean dishes like normal people do?" she throws over her shoulder at Emma.

"Don't you ever answer a question like normal people do?" Emma counters, and by the time Regina is sauntering towards her with two steaming cups of coffee in her hands, the frisson that is ever-present between them fairly crackles in the air.

"Go," Regina jerks her head towards Emma's well-worn couch across the room. "Sit."

Emma narrows her eyes and wonders when she started taking orders from women in her own home. Then she grins a little as she cocks her head onto one side and shrugs at Regina. "Most people say please."

"Most people aren't me," Regina snorts. "And I don't beg."

"Yeah, well we both know **that's** not true," Emma mutters with a sly glance at Regina, who, to Emma's great pleasure, flushes a little. Satisfied with herself, Emma nods and wanders over to the couch, dropping down onto it and crossing her legs beneath her. She grabs her cup of coffee as soon as it's placed onto the low table in front of the couch and brings it to her lips, swigging gratefully.

Regina sips at her coffee, eyeing Emma over the rim of her cup before settling herself onto the couch. She's as stiff as Emma is relaxed, legs drawn together, ankles crossed – just like her mother and that ridiculous excuse for a finishing school taught her. The irony is that she's still topless; only her bra is covering her naked skin and she can feel Emma's gaze trickling over it now and then, quite dispelling the collected, calm exterior that Regina so desperately wants to exude.

"When you described my life to me in a list of endeavors," Regina begins, putting her coffee back onto the table and smoothing her palms down over her knees, "you weren't wrong, but I realized that nobody is aware of the real reason I went into politics in the first place. And nobody is aware of the reason I've stayed in that life for all this time."

"Honestly?" Emma chugs at her coffee and swallows loudly before cradling her cup in both hands, letting the warmth seep through her skin. "Most of us figured it was because you were just too damn prickly and scary to do anything else. I mean, it's not like you're a natural kindergarten teacher or anything, is it?"

Regina smiles, but it's thin and cold. She glances down at her hands, now clasped together on her lap and she shrugs. Emma's right, of course. Any and all weaknesses – the messy sort of humanity that Emma seems to have emanating from almost every pore – had been trained out of her by a stern hand. And if that resulted in her seeming unapproachable and cruel, then it had served her well throughout her career. It might not be who she was, but it's who she is now; Regina understands _that _with the same sort of grim acceptance as she understands that her life is about to change in ways she hasn't even really begun to contemplate.

"I've probably said a lot of confusing things to you over the last day or so," Regina says, and Emma shrugs, but also nods because, frankly, this entire situation is confusing and Regina's right at the center of all that Emma finds difficult to make sense of. "And the truth of the matter is that these photographs of us both will come out, be examined and talked about and discussed by all manner of people. There's really nothing either of us can do about that, Emma."

"But I'm the one freaking out about it and you aren't," Emma frowns. "Why?"

"Oh, believe me, dear, I'm freaking out," Regina blurts out mirthless laughter and rolls her eyes. "But mostly because I'm surprised it hasn't happened before now."

She shifts on the couch, her fingers twisting together and then sighs. "All those times my committee members called me a dyke and thought I didn't hear…well, I suppose they're going to be laughing it up when this comes out." She glances at Emma and a wry smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "No pun intended."

"Yeah, but this isn't about you being gay, is it?" Emma leans forwards, putting her half-empty coffee cup onto the table.

"Not really," Regina shakes her head. "Although I wouldn't be surprised if that's what it ended up being about. But those who know me – and there aren't many – know who I am. And it's never really been an issue because it's never been – "

"An issue, right," Emma nods abruptly. "I gotta say, Regina, if you have been with anyone then I've never even heard a rumor. Well, except for that guy you were supposedly dating for a few months."

"Oh," Regina laughs, and gazes down at her hands again. "Yes. Him. Well, my mother set us up on a disastrous blind date but I have very fond memories of spending time with him. Robin's a good man and a very dear friend to this day. He and I spent time together because we wanted to and I trust him – something I can't say about a lot of people."

"But he's still a guy, right?"

"Yes, Emma," Regina reaches across the sofa and pats Emma's knee. "He's still a man. But my mother has always believed that I was going through a phase – something she quite happily explained to the father of one of my – my friends."

Emma's eyebrow lifts doubtfully at the description. "Nice of her. So are you saying that's what I am, then? A **friend**?"

"Emma," Regina is playfully disapproving. "It's very difficult for me to imagine a world in which you and I would ever, **ever** be friends." There's an almost coquettish expression on her face and she can't help preening – just a little – at the stricken look on Emma's face.

"You're a monster," Emma whispers.

"And you're very rude," Regina replies quietly. But she closes the gap between them on the couch and cups Emma's chin in her fingers, lifting the other woman's mouth to her own. As they kiss, Emma's hands slide around Regina's torso, nails scraping faint lines across her skin. Regina shudders and pushes at Emma, hand flat on the blonde's shoulder until they're apart again and Emma is left a little breathless.

"What I'm saying, Emma," Regina says, when she's gathered herself again, "is that I don't really **want** you to be my friend. Or, not **just** a friend. Do you understand?"

"I understand you're letting yourself in for a shitstorm of criticism," Emma answers dryly. "And that I'm probably going to be a laughing stock. And – "

"Yes," Regina cuts in. "I'm well aware of the repercussions of this. Which is why my Chief of Staff is quite literally apoplectic. But Kathryn and I go back a long way. She knows almost all there is to know about me and doesn't judge."

"Really?" Emma's eyebrows lift in surprise. "And she's a Republican? Tell me, Senator, how does that even work?"

Regina has the good grace to glower at Emma, but she can't resist the tiny upturn of her mouth in a rueful smile. She knows that as soon as she leaves Emma's apartment, the world that's waiting outside will judge her more harshly than ever. She also knows that keeping that world at bay isn't the real reason she doesn't want to leave.

"So," Emma finally says, fixing Regina with an intense gaze. "You really wanna do this?"

Regina finds herself uncommonly relieved that Emma's desire to avoid names or labels or anything approaching declarations of affection is as great as her own. And it doesn't seem to matter what they might have said to one another under the protective blanket of darkness, or what might have slipped from their mouths when they were in one another's arms. Today, none of that is necessary.

Nodding, Regina smiles and sees it returned on Emma's mouth. But it soon fades as the gravity of their situation becomes all too evident.

"My mother is going to be **so** disappointed," Regina murmurs to herself.

"Okay," Emma throws up her hands and leans across the couch again. "This is like, the third or fourth time you've mentioned your mother. What the hell does it matter what Cora Mills thinks? You're the Senator, Regina. **You**. Not her."

Regina laughs bitterly and reaches out, squeezing Emma's hand. "Well, that was partly the reason I wanted to talk. This entire thing…I can respond accordingly to what it might do to me politically, and I can even formulate some sort of appropriate spin on it, if I need to. But my mother is…"

She sighs deeply and lets go of Emma's hand. "My mother is the main reason I'm even here in the first place. She's a very rich, very powerful woman, Emma. And part of my career success was due to, in part, appeasing her. Keeping her happy. Measuring her affection by the amount of support she gave to my campaigns."

Emma stares at Regina. There's very little she can think of to say. It's not the first time she's seen power crumble before her eyes, but it's probably the first time she's witnessed it in someone like Regina. She blinks, and Regina nods curtly, glancing down at herself as though she's only just noticed she's not wearing a shirt.

"Well," Regina says briskly, avoiding Emma's gaze, "I should get dressed. Kathryn and I are close but I'm not sure even she would take kindly to me turning up at my office half-naked." She rises from the couch and pads across the floor towards the bedroom, only she feels more than half-naked. Regina feels utterly, horribly stripped bare and vulnerable. Because it's pathetic, really, that she should care about what her mother thinks – that she's _ever_ cared, in fact.

Only she always has. And still does. It makes her angry and resentful in equal measure.

"Regina."

Emma's voice stops Regina by the bedroom door and she half turns, expecting censure and ridicule because, honestly, that's what _she'd_ offer to a grown woman who lives in the shadow of her own mother.

"Who are you more scared of: the voting public and the RNC, or your mother?" Emma asks, a quizzical look on her features. She twists around on the couch so that she can see Regina and nods inwardly to herself. Yes; she recognizes those signs, that stance, the lack of eye contact from someone who's superior at damning people with it. Emma recognizes it all too well and even if the source is unusual, the sight of it burns in her gut with memories she hasn't quite yet eradicated.

Regina sways a little and reaches out blindly with her hand, steadying herself once she's able to grip the edge of the bedroom door.

"I'm not – " she says quietly, then bites at her lower lip. "I'm not scared. You just don't know what she's capable of, Emma. After my father died, she's really all I've ever had. She's the most wonderful, accomplished, strong woman I've ever known."

"And so are **you**!" Emma rises to her feet and stands by the couch, hands clenched into fists down by her sides. "You're fucking terrifying, Regina. I mean, do you even know that? So why do you care what she thinks or what she'll do?"

Regina's face is impassive as she looks back at Emma and she draws in a little, sharp, hurtful breath.

"She's my mother," is all she says.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	7. Chapter 7 - Classical Conservatism

Emma's been waiting in what she suspects is a drawing room for about twenty minutes. She was ushered in there by a poker-faced Kathryn Nolan, who assured her in no uncertain terms that, as Regina's Chief of Staff, she was taking a very personal interest in this particular situation. Emma took it as a threat rather than assurance, however, and barely moved until Kathryn exited, closing the door behind her.

Now she's restless and moving around the room, randomly picking up items placed – she assumes carefully and purposefully – on shelves and tables. The room is immaculate. Emma doesn't expect anything else from Regina Mills. Everything about the woman screams class or, Emma thinks with a wry smile, it announces class with the stentorian voice of someone who actually has it, rather than someone like herself who is little more than white trash.

Of course, it doesn't do to think that way, but Emma can't help it. The more time she spends in Regina's world – and lately, that time has been increasing as she's been primed and primped and a whole bunch of other words that she'd rather not apply to herself – the more Emma knows she's not really part of it. Her job, after all, is to report events, not participate in them. And it's not that she wishes she could fit in to the way Regina lives; it's simply that Emma knows she doesn't want to and never will. The times she treasures the most are when Regina visits her apartment and they can pretend that the world outside doesn't exist, doesn't want to swallow them whole and doesn't have any bearing on how they relate to one another.

Only, it _does_ exist. And, sometimes, Emma hates that it only serves to point out how different they are.

That is, if they _are_ as different as she imagines. Because they've never really discussed much more about Regina's mother, or the way Regina reacted to merely talking about her. And Emma may not know the etiquette and social charm that Regina applies so liberally, but she _does_ know the signs of a childhood that was hard and unforgiving. She should, after all. She lived one herself.

Sighing loudly, Emma shoves a hand through her hair and finds herself scowling at the door. By rights, she should be out there, getting the political scoop of the week – maybe even the month or year – and instead, she's trapped in this chintzy prison that is, quite frankly, starting to make her teeth itch. This isn't who she knows Regina to be; at least, not the woman she's come to know. But it's all part of the image that Regina has created so carefully and exactingly throughout her career, molding everyone and everything to suit the direction in which she wanted to travel.

_Upwards_, Emma thinks. She's tracked Regina's progress for years and the woman has had something of a meteoric rise, due, Emma suspects, to how she can charm people into doing whatever she wants. _And that's what she's probably doing right now_, Emma reminds herself with a grimace towards the closed door. Because when Regina Mills goes on a charm offensive, there are very few people who are strong enough to resist.

Emma can't help wondering, with a sinking heart, if she's one of them.

The door bursts open and Regina marches into the room, shutting the door behind her with a flourish so that it rattles in the frame when it closes. Turning, she locks it with a click and then covers the floor in a few, hasty paces until she's in front of Emma. She's breathing heavily and her cheeks are flushed; Emma barely has time to open her mouth before Regina is on her, pushing her against the back of a plump sofa and sliding her hands into Emma's hair.

Regina's mouth is greedy, her tongue forcing its way past Emma's lips and sliding over her teeth. Her nails scrape over Emma's scalp, fingers curling in thick tresses so that she has handfuls of it; she pulls hard enough to elicit a pained, surprised sound that makes Regina chuckle deep in her throat. Her kiss is hard, eager; Emma almost loses her balance over the back of the sofa before she puts her hands onto Regina's shoulders and shoves the other woman back a few steps.

"I've missed you," Regina says, and reaches for Emma again. This time, Emma is ready and grabs Regina's wrists, keeping her at arm's length.

"Yeah – I missed you too," Emma frowns as Regina snatches her arms from Emma's fingers and shucks off her blazer, letting it fall onto the ground behind her. "But – the press conference – how did it go? Tell me what happened."

"Later," Regina growls, and darts forwards again, palms brushing over Emma's neck as she curves her fingers around muscle and pulls Emma to her. "I need you. **Now**." She kisses Emma again voraciously, fingers moving to tug at the green shirt the blonde is wearing, carelessly plucking at buttons.

Emma pushes Regina back again, this time with more force than is absolutely necessary and she glares at the Senator with accusatory eyes.

"Jesus, Regina," she blurts. "This is my best shirt and, unlike you, I don't have unlimited resources to just go out and buy whatever designer stuff it is that you wear. What the **hell** is up with you?"

Regina simply stares at her, then blinks, tosses her head and laughs. It's too high-pitched to be genuine and Emma can't quell the alarm that prickles in her chest. Regina's eyes are bright, almost feverish. She turns, stepping over her discarded blazer and walking a few paces across the floor before she spins and faces Emma.

"I was **magnificent**," Regina announces, pride shaping her face into hard edges that Emma recognizes, but has long since failed to associate with the way Regina looks at her. "It was…"

She lifts her chin in satisfaction and nods. "It was transformative."

"So I guess it went well, then," Emma mumbles. She's more than a little envious and, she's surprised to note, almost kind of resentful of Regina. Because there's no middle ground when it comes to statements like the one Regina had agonized over and rewritten about thirty times until she felt it said everything it needed to. It could have gone horribly wrong but, from the looks of it – and certainly from the look of Regina – it didn't. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"It was incredible!" Regina gasps, and lets out a laugh again. "Emma, those people out there...they've been the bane of my political life. You know that because you were too," Regina adds, throwing out a cursory hand towards Emma, who shifts uncomfortably under having become something other; she's less than what she used to be now – to her editor and to Regina. Only, she's not sure _what_.

"I don't know what I was so afraid of all these years," Regina continues, eyes burning. "I started talking and I knew – I just **knew** – that it would be alright. And the more I talked, the better it was. Someone even told me I was very brave."

"I bet they did," Emma murmurs. "Or, you know," she frowns at Regina, "very stupid. They're going to have a field day with this. With **us**."

"Let them," Regina saunters towards Emma, hands high in the air. "There's no shame in it."

"It's not about **shame**," Emma sighs. "I **know** there's no shame in it – shit, **they** know there's no shame in it. But you're taking a hell of a risk with your party and with re-election coming up in less than two years."

"A risk?" Regina scoffs. "The only risk that made itself evident was to not speak out, not be open and wait until those photographs fell into the wrong hands. Now, if they do, whoever took them will be gravely disappointed in the non-reaction."

"I don't know if you noticed," Emma shakes her head, "but we're still naked in them. You and me. Undressed and having sex."

"I'm aware," Regina says reproachfully, her expression clouding. Then she draws in a short breath and nods to herself. "But today, Emma, today I feel euphoric. Like a weight has been lifted and I want to celebrate. With **you**, dear. Can't you just give me that today?"

She has a predatory look on her face as she moves in closer to Emma, and it's wholly intoxicating to be wanted by this beautiful, passionate, arrogant woman. Emma knows she should resist, exercise caution and try to bring Regina down from this high she seems to be on. But it's addictive and Emma can feel jubilation swirl around her, captured in the scent of Regina's perfume and the dark shadows lurking within the other woman's eyes. It's hard to counteract and Emma's sigh as she feels Regina's hands on her waist, fingers on the button of her jeans, is one of regret and sublimation. Because the power this woman exudes is made of more than her political standing or her carefully worded statement, designed to shock and impress all at the same time. No; Regina's power is in the way her body fits against Emma's as though it was always intended to be so; it's in the fleeting breath that gusts over Emma's cheek as Regina leans in and presses her red lips to a pounding pulse point. And it's in the way that Emma can't help but fall, as though she was destined to be here, with this woman, in this place.

"What if someone comes in?" Emma whispers as Regina's fingers deftly undo the buttons on her shirt until it's hanging open, tugged from her jeans.

"They won't," Regina says, voice muffled against Emma's neck as her mouth leaves a red trail of lipstick from jaw to clavicle. She stands back and looks at the blonde, heat rising in her veins to mingle with the self-congratulatory surge of confidence Regina is allowing to rush around her body. Her gaze rakes down Emma's body, lingering over the swell of the blonde's breasts and, beneath, her taut stomach. It's almost mouth-wateringly tempting and Regina smiles, baring her perfect, white teeth. "Kathryn knows to keep everyone at bay and everyone will be gone in less than an hour. Most of the press couldn't wait to rush off and write their little stories, anyway."

"I bet," Emma grimaces with envy once again because it should have been her; this story should have been hers. But instead of writing it, she's part of it. She's no longer a bit-part player – now she's a headliner in something she always used to take great pleasure in exposing: just another political scandal, another revelation, another secret exposed. In finding out Regina's secret, Emma has become it, too.

"So why don't you stop worrying about tomorrow and enjoy today, hm?" Regina suggests, reaching out to trail her fingers down Emma's torso. She hums in delight as Emma shudders and clenches her back teeth together. It strikes Regina as funny: how easy it is to touch another person and see that contact ripple out to envelop their entire body in a feeling _she's_ abjured for years. Funny and sad and everything that's been ignored in favor of something her mother instilled in her.

Regina can't help wondering if, every time she touches Emma and allows Emma to touch her, she rebels against it just that little bit more. It feels so good that it must surely be an act of defiance. All the times she'd ever bowed to her mother's iron will, she'd hated it. But every time she's with Emma this way, Regina can't think of anything she'd rather do more willingly.

"Take your shirt off," Regina demands. To her surprise, Emma complies, exposing her creamy-white shoulders and the thin straps of the bra she's wearing. Regina slides her palm over Emma's skin, her thumb lingering at the base of Emma's neck; she presses it downwards and takes pleasure in how pliable the flesh is there, how easily it moves beneath her caress. She realizes that she's ravenous for Emma - the jangling nervous tension in her body has been infused with the euphoria of a perceived victory and it's made her hungry, desperate for the blonde.

Regina's fingers curl around Emma's throat and she clenches them, holding the other woman in her grasp for a long moment. Then she darts forwards, kissing Emma so suddenly and so hard that she can hear a tiny note of surprise in Emma's throat, feel how the muscle beneath her hand moves to make it.

"Turn around," Regina murmurs against Emma's mouth. She winds an arm around Emma's waist as the blonde half turns – too slowly and too deliberately for Regina's liking – then spins her the rest of the way until she can bend Emma over the back of the couch. The blond puts out her arms to steady herself but Regina grabs them at the wrist and clasps them behind Emma's back, holding them tightly in one hand while her other reaches around and picks at the button on Emma's jeans.

With some difficulty, Regina undoes the button and snatches at the zipper. She presses herself up behind Emma and sinks her teeth into the blonde's shoulder, eliciting a cry of pain – or perhaps pleasure, Regina isn't entirely sure – that makes Emma buck under Regina's body.

"Really, dear," Regina says thickly, tightening her grip on Emma's wrists, pinned between their bodies, "these ridiculous jeans of yours are almost impossible to remove."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to think I'm easy," Emma pants, then gasps as she feels Regina's fingertips wriggle past the top of her underwear. "Maybe if you let go of my hands I could help you out with that."

Regina chuckles and it's a low, dangerous sound that resonates against Emma's neck, making her shiver. "Maybe if you didn't wear pants that look as though they're painted on, I wouldn't **need** any help."

"You love them. You love me in them," Emma grinds out as Regina pushes her forwards again and withdraws her hands from Emma's jeans to yank at them until they inch down over her hips.

"Yes," Regina hisses, working the denim further down, past Emma's thighs. "I hate that you know these things, dear. It's highly aggravating."

"Jesus, Regina," Emma sighs a little, sounding almost exasperated with the other woman. "Why the hell do you think I wear them?"

Regina makes a noise deep in her throat and lets go of Emma's wrists. She places her palm in the center of Emma's back and shoves at the blonde, bending her over the back of the couch so that her naked buttocks are exposed. Leaning over her, Regina plunges her fingers into Emma's hair, clutching a fistful of it that she pulls on until Emma whimpers a little.

"So provocative," Regina murmurs, smoothing her hand down Emma's lower back, over the curve of her buttocks and even lower down to the apex of her legs. "So challenging. You like to try my patience, don't you?"

"I like to do a lot of things," Emma says, her voice muffled from where she's facing the soft cushions of the couch. "I thought you did too, but instead you're just standing there yakking instead of actually, you know, doing."

One of Regina's eyebrows rises but she says nothing and instead thrusts her fingers between Emma's legs to find them instantly covered with wetness. It makes her smile, knowing that their verbal parries are a prelude to arousal – perhaps even the instigation for it. She moves her fingers further in and sees how Emma braces herself against the couch, moving backwards a little and bumping against the heel of Regina's hand.

"Did you mean like **that**?" Regina asks, pulling on Emma's hair a little tighter now as her fingers slide deeper into the other woman.

"Fuck," Emma breathes, throaty and graveled. "Yeah. Like – like that."

Regina's smile is feral and she leans over Emma, drawing her fingers out to their tips and then thrusting them back in again, sliding easily through sticky wetness that makes Regina's stomach dip and turn in desire. She needs this. Needs Emma. It strikes her as a dangerous position to be in when she's only ever really relied on herself in the past, and her capacity to require someone else in order to be fulfilled makes Regina grit her teeth in faint repudiation. She drives her fingers deep inside Emma, back out, then in again; her thrusts pick up speed and she can hear the agonized groans that come from the blonde. Somehow, that makes it better. Somehow, that sparks a fire in her gut, burning for Emma's release as much as her own, only in very different ways.

Emma's pushing back against her now, both of them reaching a rhythm that forces Regina's fingers in and out of the other woman. She can hear how wet Emma is, hear the moans as her nails scrabble against hot flesh and the heel of her hand bangs against Emma's buttocks. Regina adds another finger to the three already inside Emma and hears the strained cry of fullness it evokes. She shifts on the carpet, pressing up against Emma's hip and working her thumb between the blonde's buttocks. When it meets resistance, Regina hears Emma's tiny exclamation of consternation and smiles to herself.

"And how about that?" she whispers, her body flush against Emma's back. "Do you like that?"

"I don't…I don't know," Emma forces out, but Regina hears the hesitancy in her voice and laughs: a cold, brittle sound.

"You don't **know**? Are you **sure**, Emma? You strike me as a woman who knows exactly what she likes and exactly what she wants," Regina purrs. Emma writhes beneath her and lets out a pained moan. Regina withdraws her fingers from Emma, sliding them upwards and coating the tight hole with slick wetness. Then she thrusts her fingers back inside the other woman, and her thumb far enough inside so that Emma's back arches and her hands clutch for purchase on the back of the couch.

"Yes," Emma grinds out between gritted teeth. "Yes, please. **Please** fuck me, Regina. I'm so…god…I'm close. **Please**."

It's empowering to hear the blonde beg this way and Regina rises, working her fingers in and out with renewed vigor. She releases Emma's hair and puts her hand between the other woman's shoulder blades, holding her in place even though Emma struggles and tries to move. But she's pinned to the couch and Regina is strong – much stronger than she's ever been before.

Emma can feel it begin as a trickling sensation down her entire body, starting at the base of her neck and branching out, tendrils touching every part of her, rushing towards where the tension is building at the tops of her thighs. Her legs are trembling and she's sucking in deep lungfuls of air as Regina moves in and out of her. It's different – this dual sensation; it's fulsome and almost too much to bear, but bear it she must. She tries to push herself back but Regina has her hand firmly between her shoulders and Emma can't move, not even an inch. She's always hated being held down in all the ways that matter, but this feels good and she lets out a ragged breath, giving herself over to it entirely. Because this _does_ matter. It matters more than she ever wants to admit.

The trickle is now a flood, rushing and surging into every part of her body. Emma whines as it races through her chest and up her neck, making her dizzy. She blinks rapidly and her fingers claw at the cushions on the couch but she can't stop it, can't control it and, deep down, doesn't want to. She's accepted that control isn't a word that can ever be applied to Regina Mills and the way she makes Emma feel. Emma wants Regina so much in so many necessary, fatally important ways that the rules she made for herself no longer apply. There's certainly no reason to be found in making new ones, either.

Emma can feel herself sinking, lurching forwards with only the couch to keep her in place and Regina's hand on her back, Regina's fingers inside of her. Emma feels her entire body begin to buzz and hum with an oncoming orgasm and she feels the razor-sharp edges of Regina's nails press insistent lines between her shoulder blades. No; this isn't control. This is the entire and utter lack of it. Without even thinking twice, Emma plunges headlong into its mire and rises once, twice, beneath Regina's hold on her before she fills her lungs with air and then expels it in a keening wail of climax.

Sometimes, these days, it feels as though it's the only thing she's good at.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	8. Chapter 8 - Absentee Ballot

"I have to go," Regina says, and rolls away from Emma. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, pushing at her hair and wondering if she can manage to get home without looking too disheveled. It's been a long month since she made her statement, made longer still by the vast increase in her workload. She's more tired than she can ever remember being during one of her election campaigns and her shoulders sag as she leans forwards a little.

"I don't want to sound like a needy girlfriend," Emma's voice comes from behind her and Regina half turns to see the blonde leaning up, head on hand, "but you **literally** just got here."

Regina sighs and drops her head, then turns sideways on the bed, looking at Emma with something like sympathy. It's not just been tiring for _her_ – she knows that. And navigating the infancy of their relationship in the glare of a spotlight that's been turned upon them has been difficult for them both. Perhaps even more so for Emma, Regina thinks.

Then she can't help smiling because neither she nor Emma have _ever_ considered this a relationship before. At least, not that either of them have actually spoken about.

Emma catches Regina's tiny smile and misinterprets it, mentally chiding herself for trying to label what they are, for appearing like she wants to. She puffs out her cheeks and groans a little, picking at a loose thread on the edge of her pillowcase.

"Okay, so maybe I just sounded **exactly** like a needy girlfriend," she mumbles. "And I gotta tell you, that's not me at **all**, so how about we forget it ever happened?"

"Of course, dear," Regina says smoothly, then her lips twitch with amusement as she looks at a clearly uncomfortable Emma. "Although I've never actually **had** a girlfriend so I'm unlikely to be able to tell whether you're being needy or not."

"Damn," Emma mock-glowers. "Could've gotten away with it."

"I have a feeling that you could get away with quite a lot if you put your mind to it," Regina hums. Emma scoots closer across the bed and leans towards her, reaching out to trail her fingers down Regina's arm.

"I'm willing to test that theory if you are," Emma wiggles her eyebrows lasciviously.

"You are insatiable," Regina says disapprovingly, but she's smiling again and even leans down to place a gentle kiss onto Emma's lips. A pair of arms slide around her torso and pull her off balance; she falls onto the bed until she's lying beside Emma once more. But there's something so addictive about the feel of skin on skin – about the feel of _Emma's_ skin on her own, anyway. Regina knows that she still craves it, still wants the odd sense of security it offers and the surge of power it gives her because Emma clearly feels the same. It tugs at her sense of propriety; it makes her think things she has no right to contemplate or suggest to herself. And this weakness that her mother urged her to cast aside feels far more like a strength that Regina simply can't do without. Not anymore.

Regina reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Emma's ear, fingertips trailing across the other woman's cheek. Emma almost nestles into the caress and Regina can't help thinking that it's incredible they got this far; incredible that she can feel so at ease like this. Her sexual liaisons of the past had always been about power – exerting it, taking it – and the differential was constantly in her favor.

But with Emma, Regina isn't sure where the _true_ power lies. Sometimes she thinks she has a firm grasp on it, then Emma will smile or touch her and Regina will feel as though everything she's embodied for decades slips away into the ether. It's odd, how it doesn't leave her feeling helpless. Vulnerable, yes. But helpless? _Never_.

"You're thinking," Emma murmurs, turning her head and planting a loud kiss against Regina's palm.

Regina snorts gently. "I've been known to do that occasionally. I hear it helps when one is planning political strategy. You may want to try it sometime."

"Ass," Emma chides, frowning. Then she stares at Regina and moves, bumping her hip against the other woman's. "Wait – you've seriously never had a girlfriend. **Ever**?"

Regina laughs a little, leaning up and rolling onto her back. "Not since the – well, I suppose the ambassador's daughter doesn't really count. It's not like we ever got the chance to see where things went after my mother…"

Her voice trails away and she bites pensively at her lower lip before turning and resting her head onto one hand, meeting Emma's inquisitive gaze. "Dating wasn't really on the agenda once my career got started. I mean, there was Robin but – "

"Beards don't count," Emma says abruptly, but there's no malice in it. She smiles at Regina and runs her hand down the length of Regina's arm, twining their fingers together when she reaches Regina's hand. "So you were basically celibate for what – years?"

"No, dear," Regina answers, a little haughtily. "I had lovers, if you prefer that expression, but nothing I wanted to take seriously."

"Oh," Emma says simply. "And am I included in that?"

She almost cringes at how she sounds because this was never meant to be a long term thing. It was never meant to be a _thing_, period. But here they are, and here Emma is, wanting nothing more than for whatever it is she has with Regina to become something more permanent. Something regular. Something she can look forward to without the fear always at her back that this time might be the last. People leave: it's a mantra that Emma's repeated to herself over the years. The sad truth is that it's been made fact by her own detachment and her ability to keep people at arm's length. She never was much of a one for relationships – they always seemed too time consuming and messy.

Regina is both of those things – Emma isn't sure if what they have could _be_ any more time consuming and messy – and yet Emma wants her in ways that even she can't quite distinguish.

"Emma," Regina says quietly, breaking the blonde from her reverie, "I take you very seriously indeed. I mean, once you've had your naked body splashed across the tabloids and the internet with someone else, I think that forms something of an unbreakable bond, don't you?"

Her face is deadpan, but Regina's eyes are twinkling with unexpressed mirth and Emma squeezes her hand hard because, really, this is no laughing matter. She winces at the memory of the photographs, released too late to do anything but add fuel to the fire of gossip surrounding the two of them. Not as harmful as intended, perhaps, but meddlesome and downright embarrassing, nonetheless. Regina claimed it as a victory that the photographs were published and forgotten within a week, but Emma knows differently. Because she's seen how these things are filed away, saved until it's conducive to a greater menace to exhume them and plaster them wherever they might be most useful.

"I'm glad you're finding this entire thing so hilarious," Emma grumbles, letting go of Regina's hand and flopping back onto her pillow with a deep sigh. "The day they broke, my editor spent at least an hour with me in his office, going over and over them. Do you have **any** idea how humiliating it is to have a sexist pig looking at you, ass and tits all over the place, and commenting on what a great story it is?"

"I don't," Regina says, "but I – "

"I mean," Emma continues, blithely ignoring Regina, "the **only** reason he's not firing me is because he says that my notorious reputation is bringing a buzz to the paper and to our website. Fuck, I worked my ass off for **years **to be taken seriously and now I'm a joke. And all those men I work with, who couldn't keep their hands or their comments to themselves act like it's open season. On my ass!"

She grinds her teeth together and lets out a frustrated growl, lifting her hands in the air and thudding them back down onto the mattress as clenched fists.

"I'm so sorry it turned out this way for you," Regina tells Emma, and her tone is dutifully contrite. As Emma turns her head on the pillow, she can see sincerity shining in Regina's eyes and it helps, a little.

But not really enough.

"Yeah," Emma mutters. "I don't get any decent stories anymore, and if I **am** sent out on assignment, the leads I'm meant to follow up won't take me seriously because I'm the mistress of a Senator and that's really all anyone wants to talk about."

"Emma, I am truly, **truly** sorry you got mixed up in this. Mixed up with **me**," Regina adds. She puts her hand onto Emma's shoulder and feels the other woman stiffen although Emma doesn't pull away. "Believe me, I would understand if you wanted to…if you felt that you had to…disassociate."

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?" Emma's jaw hardens slightly and she takes in a breath, holds it and tries to stop the hot flood of resentment she feels. It's not Regina's fault. It's not anyone's fault, really. But without anyone to blame, all the anger Emma feels has nowhere to go. It reminds her of her childhood. Adults had hurt and abandoned her – including her birth parents, whoever they were and whatever their reasons were for giving her up – so many times that, in the end, Emma would lash out blindly at anyone and everyone who got too close.

She doesn't want to do that with Regina. So her hand curls into a fist once more down by her hip and she clenches her teeth, breathing out a long stream of calming air before turning to Regina again.

"I don't want to," she says in a terse voice. "I mean, I don't want to disassociate, or whatever, with you. It's not **you**, Regina. It's that I'm trapped. I can't give up my job – I don't want to. I love what I do and I worked so hard to get to this point and now…"

Emma swallows hard and blinks as Regina leans over her again. "It pisses me off that for all I've done, all I've written and all I've struggled for, I'm reduced to being some sort of salacious gossip and little more than the office eye candy."

Regina cups Emma's face in her hand, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. It feels very selfish, she thinks, to be so jubilant about her own victories when Emma's losses are so severe. It diminishes any sort of progress they might have made and leaves her feeling regretful. Not about what she has with Emma or the way they simply can't stay away from one another. No; for the first time in her life, Regina feels regretful about the way her own gains have had such a detrimental effect on someone _else_. For the first time, Regina feels the urge to put someone else's welfare ahead of her own.

"You know that you're far more than just that," she says softly, and Emma rolls her eyes in refute. "You **are**," Regina insists. "You're the reason this is all happening, you know. And I should have told you before now – thanked you, actually."

"For **what**?" Emma's eyes are incredulous and she reaches up, curling her fingers around Regina's wrist and pulling the woman's hand from her face. Struggling up onto her elbow, Emma faces Regina and shakes her head. "If you hadn't – if we hadn't – this never would have happened and both of us would just be going on with our lives like before."

"Because that was so very fulfilling for both of us, I assume?" Regina intones, her voice dull with the trappings of a life that had become habit more than anything else.

"Nobody was drooling over naked pictures of us, that's for sure," Emma grouses. "And yeah, maybe it's been great for your career but it's been pretty much a death knell for mine. You did the brave thing, Regina. I was just the other woman who was there."

"That's not true at all," Regina says, brow furrowing. "And if people can't come to terms in this day and age with the fact that two consenting adults are having sex, then – "

"Except I'm the one getting catcalls and propositions in the office and you're the one getting adoring letters from slavish fangirls," Emma grunts. As Regina's eyebrow rises, she shrugs, lips twisting. "Yeah, I've seen them. Your secretary showed them to me. You've got a following of willing ladies and I've got a pack of animals. So don't tell me about this day and age. I've been dealing with this shit for a **lot** longer than you have."

"Of course," Regina sniffs, moving back a little in the bed, eyes narrowing slightly. "Because you don't think that the oldest of old boys clubs isn't the least bit condescending to a woman who wants to play in their sandbox? Believe me, Emma, I've heard all the names, all the put-downs, all the ways in which men show and tell women exactly what they think of them. You'll excuse me if I'm taking the tiniest shred of victory in the fact that, at grass roots level, there's a damn sight less hostility than there is among my so-called esteemed colleagues."

She's a little breathless; it's a confession she's made only to herself before now. And she can see it in Emma's eyes, how the woman understands the sort of deference they're both supposed to pay towards the institutions in which they work. But it doesn't appease Emma – that Regina can tell from the pink spots high up on Emma's cheeks and the way she clenches her jaw, nostrils flaring. In fact, Regina is growing increasingly frustrated at how inadequate she feels to do or say anything that might offer solace. She's a problem solver – always has been – but this is a problem to which she simply can't find an answer. Or, if she can, it's one that isn't easy to separate from all the strands of Emma's discontent, fraying around the edges, just like she is.

"Tell me what I can do," Regina finally says. "Tell me how I can help. I want to help."

"Why?" Emma sits up in the bed, the sheet that had been draped over her body falling from it to pool around her waist. She folds her arms over her naked breasts and tosses her head, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant child. "Why would you even want to?"

"Why would I…?" Regina is aghast and more than a little panicked. She'd thought that the way their conversation started – the way that all their conversations have picked and skipped over this particular topic – might have indicated to Emma that this is more than an affair; more than the secretive trysts Regina had manufactured to sate her desires.

Regina swallows and clears her throat, rising to a sitting position so she's directly opposite Emma. And it's wholly ironic, she thinks, that they should need to define their relationship in such a way when everyone else has been doing nothing but over the last month.

"Yeah, why the hell would you give a flying fuck about me?" Emma darts sulkily. "You came out in a blaze of political glory, Regina. You're the Republican poster girl for acceptable gayness and half the lesbian population of Maine is lining up to be exactly where I am right now."

She looks away from Regina and stares balefully down at the sheet draped over her lap. Emma notices that it's a little threadbare and that only serves to darken her mood. She's embarrassed by how much she cares and how important this all seems, gulping hastily over the growing ache in her throat. This whole stupid situation should be bringing them closer together, but she's barely seen Regina over the last month and, when she has, Emma's thoughts have been heavy, laden with notions of just how long it's going to last before Regina leaves and doesn't come back.

Fingers underneath her chin force Emma's head up and she's almost overwhelmed by the look of sympathy in Regina's eyes. It rankles: she doesn't want Regina's pity. What she wants from the other woman is something she'll never ask for, something she has no right to demand and the one thing that has been absent from so much of her life that Emma's simply learned to live without it.

No. Not live. _Exist_.

"I know you think this has all been terribly easy for me," Regina begins, and her voice trembles enough to make Emma blink, curious. "But the truth is, dear, that I'm terrified every single day that it's all going to fall apart. Right now things are going well. I have a team of very able, very experienced people behind me to fend off the worst criticism. They do it because I pay them to. It's their job. But they don't care about **me**."

Regina lets go of Emma's chin and clasps her hands together on her lap, suddenly aware that she's naked and that there's nothing to hide behind. She shakes her head; this is ridiculous.

"If you're jealous of the attention I'm getting, then you should know that – "

Emma lets out a harsh bark of laughter, her shoulders jutting upwards. "**Jealous**? Christ, Regina, how old do you think I am? Fourteen?"

"Of course not! Although sometimes I do wonder!" Regina snaps, suddenly irritated by Emma's hostility. She watches as Emma draws the sheet up around her, scrambling away across the bed so there's a wider gap between them than before.

"I get it, you know?" Emma jerks her head back and pushes a hand agitatedly through her messy hair. "You've been closeted for most of your life so this is all shiny and brand new and exciting for you and that's…that's great, you know?"

"No, I really don't," Regina bites. "For every one of those letters that my secretary so gleefully showed you, there's a plethora of others that are only too happy to point out my shortcomings as a woman, a politician, and a human being. I've received literal novels written on how I'm abdicating my duties as a Senator in favor of activities that don't exactly field well with the moral majority. She didn't show you those now, did she?"

"Welcome to the real world!" Emma bellows. "Welcome to the sort of life the rest of us have to live because we're not protected by a team of people who hide that sort of vindictive crap from us. Welcome to my fucking life right **now**, Regina!"

"So, please," Emma holds out her hands in an expansive gesture of mocking obeisance, "tell me why the hell you'd want to wade through the crap of my life when you can so easily stay in that ivory tower you've created for yourself where everything is full of unicorns and rainbow stickers!"

She's barely finished spitting out the words with a venom that surprises her when she hears the crack of a hand on her cheek before she feels it. The pain comes a split second later and Emma recoils, pressing her fingers to the side of her face, mouth falling open in horrified astonishment.

"For an intelligent woman, you're being very stupid right now," Regina hisses, brows drawn together in anger and what looks like hurt. "If it weren't for you, Emma, then I'd **still** be closeted and afraid and stuck in a life where I couldn't be myself."

"Well, that's me," Emma laughs bitterly. "Bringing politics kicking and screaming into the modern age, one Senator at a time."

Regina gives a frustrated sigh and rolls her eyes. "Well if you're going to be glib about it…"

"What else am I **supposed** to be?" Emma says. "How else am I supposed to feel? And why do you even give a shit?"

"Because, you ridiculous creature," Regina leans forwards, exasperated, and grabs Emma by the shoulders, even going so far as to shake her a little, "I've never felt this way before or done this before. That's how I feel. About **you**, Emma. **Just** you. And if you don't think that makes you special or worth keeping, then let me clarify: you **are**. You're special to **me**."

It's not the most eloquent of declarations, nor is it easy for Regina. Her grip on Emma's shoulders loosens and, eventually, her hands slide from the other woman completely, dropping down by her hips. Regina sags a little and feels her heart sink. Emma's so angry and disenfranchised from everything she holds dear – were the tables turned, Regina knows that she would hate everything and everyone responsible for her downfall. But perhaps she'd hate herself most of all.

She can't help wondering if Emma hates her, too. If that's the underlying emotion she feels when they're together, bodies entwined, and not the deeper, more pervasive feelings that she's developed for Emma.

"Please," Regina says, her voice thick, "say something."

"Regina," Emma says, with wonder and surprise and pleasure written across her features, "are you…are you asking me to be your girlfriend?"

"For God's sake," Regina exhales in a breath of barely disguised irritation, "do you **have** to make things so difficult? Do you want me to slap you again?"

Emma makes a dismissive noise in her throat but there's a tiny smile appearing at the corner of her mouth and she cocks her head onto one side. "Is this how the Mills family expresses affection or are you into kink?" she asks. "I mean, it's not a problem if you are…I'm just clarifying so I know how to please my girlfriend," she adds.

"Don't make fun of me," Regina mutters, and she looks so painfully embarrassed that Emma darts across the bed, grabs her and literally throws her back onto the pillows. Throwing one leg over Regina's hips, Emma straddles her and presses down, fingers curled around Regina's wrists.

"I'm not making fun," Emma murmurs. "I promise. I'm just…I just…"

She gazes down at the woman below her and sees real trepidation in Regina's eyes; feels it in the way the body under her own is tense and hesitant. This is real, she thinks, with a sudden pang of tremulous fear. In spite of the photographs and the furore and the seemingly endless chatter of the community in which Emma has been ensconced for so many years – or perhaps _because_ of it – everything between them is real.

"I thought you'd run away," Emma says in little more than a whisper.

Regina smiles and lets out a breath that sounds like relief, her body visibly relaxing. "I've run away from things all my life, Emma," she says quietly. "But between the two of us, you're the only one running right now."

"Says the woman who wanted to leave the moment we'd finished having sex."

Emma grinds down on Regina and feels the other woman groan at the contact. She increases the tightness of her grip on Regina's wrists and pushes them back into the pillow, bending down so that her mouth hovers millimeters from Regina's plump lips.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" Regina says, squeezing her eyes shut as Emma shifts, rolling her hips around in a circle on top of Regina's own. "And I…I don't think we've finished – "

She's cut off by Emma's mouth pressing firmly down onto her own, lips parting so that their tongues can slide over one another, bumping over teeth. Regina can feel Emma's knees on either side of her waist as the blonde pushes down again and this time there's wetness left in the wake of Emma's movement. Regina moans aloud into Emma's mouth and the blonde rises, looking down at Regina's flushed face and dark, wanton gaze.

"I don't want us to finish," Emma gasps. "I don't want this to finish."

She releases one of Regina's wrists and plunges her hand down between their bodies to where flesh is hot and wet and swollen with lust. Regina parts her legs a little and Emma slides two fingers between them. Her own clitoris is hard and throbbing and she groans a little as her knuckles bump against it, sucking in a hiss of air and jerking her hips over Regina's.

Emma circles her fingertips around Regina's clitoris, feeling the other woman rise from the bed beneath her and gasp loudly. She moves so that she's astride Regina's thigh and pushes the other woman's legs open. She pinches Regina's clitoris between her finger and thumb, laughing softly as Regina cries out, hips canting upwards. It's liberating, in a way, to see Regina so freed by little more than a fingertip touch. It heightens Emma's senses, makes her chest contract and her skin burn for Regina, just like it did the first time they were together – like it does every time they're together.

Dipping her head, Emma kisses Regina again. Their mouths are open, eager and hungry for one another. Regina's arm curls around Emma's shoulders, her touch a swathe of searing heat that makes Emma kiss harder, grinding down on Regina's thigh. She can feel the wetness she's smearing over the other woman's skin and it's matched only by the sticky moisture on her fingertips. The way they want one another is bone deep; it's in more than the way their flesh responds to hands and mouth. It's in more than the encroaching climax that they tease, demand and encourage out of one another, too. Emma can feel it building between them and it's more than a physical thing. It's an emotional one. At the back of her mind, she knows what it's called and how it feels, but she fears it too much to ever let it slide from her lips in the same way platitudes and insults do.

Emma works her fingers over Regina's clitoris, rubbing hard enough to make the other woman rise from the bed again, a high-pitched cry coming from her mouth as their kiss ends. Head hanging down, Emma's lips are against Regina's ear and she wants – oh, how she wants – to confess what's rolling around her head and heart. But it's too soon. Too much. Too dangerous.

Instead, Emma presses down hard with her fingers and clenches Regina's thigh between her legs. Regina's breathing quickens, her eyes flutter shut and she comes quickly, suddenly, shoulders lifting from the pillow and snatching her wrist from Emma's grasp. By the time her head thuds back down onto the pillow beneath it, Emma is falling too and they land in a tangle of limbs and half-spoken words of gratitude.

"Told you I didn't want you to leave," Emma mumbles against Regina's neck, and she feels a laugh rumble through Regina's chest.

"I remember," Regina says breathlessly. "The words of a needy girlfriend, wasn't it?"

"Shut up," Emma growls, but kisses Regina on the neck and rolls off her, fitting easily against her side and flinging an arm over her chest. They lie in companionable silence, Regina's hand trailing up and down Emma's back until she draws in a breath and sighs it out.

"I meant what I said," Regina says, "about helping you if I can. I know it's probably not much comfort to you, given your current predicament, but I want to support you in any way that's feasible."

"Thanks," Emma says, and avoids looking at Regina by burying her face further into the other woman's neck. "But everyone already thinks I'm your kept woman. And, knowing your party's predilection for scandal, it won't be long before one of your old boys is caught in a public restroom with a minor or something like that and you and I are old news."

Regina makes a tiny noise of disapproval and shifts in Emma's arms a little. "Your faith in politics is astounding, dear."

"More like realistic cynicism," Emma comments. "And I'll deal with the crap at work, one way or another. I know this might sound hard to believe, but I was pretty obnoxious as a teenager. I'm used to bullies."

"You shouldn't have to be," Regina tells her.

"We're women," Emma sighs. "We work in an environment dominated by the worst kind of men on the planet. More fool us for doing it, right?"

"Mm, perhaps," Regina hums. "But if I **can** help, then you'll let me know, won't you?"

Emma leans up and looks down at Regina, then bends her head and kisses the other woman gently on the lips. "Yeah," she smiles. "I'll let you know."

Regina knows that Emma won't.

"I'm going to take a shower," Emma announces, rolling away and leaping from the bed. She's halfway across the bedroom en route to the bathroom when she turns and looks at Regina with an expression that's about as vulnerable as Regina's ever seen her. She takes in the lean lines of Emma's figure and Regina knows that she'll never tire of looking at Emma. It's a little terrifying and makes her take in a sharp breath of acknowledgement as she realizes that her life will never be the same again. Not in any way, shape or form.

"Stay until I get back?" Emma asks, face screwing up in hope.

Regina reaches for her Blackberry, lying on the bedside table and waves it in the air. "I'll be right here," she says. "I can check a few emails while I wait."

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Emma's toweling her hair as she emerges from the steamy bathroom, somewhat invigorated after a short, hot shower. There's a spring to her step as she enters the bedroom and she's feeling more optimistic about things than she was a day or two ago. She wants to berate herself for it; memories of her childhood rise to the surface where she used to get excited about the possibilities that never amounted to anything and left her feeling more alone than ever. But it's hard not feel like somewhere, there's sunshine. As though the cloud that's followed her for most of her life is finally dissipating.

She's spent so much of her life fighting that it's become second nature. And Emma's always been combative in every way because it's how she learned to protect herself.

It's funny, then, to wonder if perhaps she doesn't _need_ to anymore. If, perhaps, there's someone else who might have her back. Might even protect her when she can't.

"Stupid," Emma mutters into the towel before pulling it from her head and draping it around her shoulders. She casts a bright smile across the room towards the bed; it freezes on her face as she observes the hunched figure pressed against the headboard, knees up and arms wrapped tightly around them.

"Regina?" Emma says, darting forwards and hurling herself onto the bed close to Regina. But the other woman barely acknowledges her presence and Emma's gaze darts around until it lands on Regina's discarded Blackberry, lying on the bed a few inches from her foot.

"Hey, what is it?" Emma urges, putting her hand onto Regina's knee. The other woman flinches at the touch and blinks, looking at Emma as though she's only just noticed her there. Regina's eyes are wide, brimming with tears and she shakes her head wordlessly as Emma peers up into her face. "Regina, come on," Emma presses. "What's happened? Tell me what's happened."

It doesn't really matter what's happened, Emma tells herself internally. Whatever it is – it's nothing good. That she can tell for sure.

Regina's mouth opens and closes before she swallows with a faint click of her throat. Then she pushes the heel of her hand against her forehead, nodding down towards her Blackberry.

"I was checking my emails," she says slowly, as though each word is difficult to say. "And my mother – she sent me a message. It's the first time I've heard from her since I – since I made that statement."

"Okay," Emma says ponderously, unease settling like a mist over her chest.

"She says – she says that she's withdrawing her support from my campaign for re-election," Regina states, then she laughs tearfully and shakes her head again, running a hand through her hair. "She says that she can't put her resources behind someone who is morally deficient – that's the phrase she used," Regina looks at Emma and appears like a small, bewildered child.

"She told me that it's a shame I allowed my weaknesses to show and that – that I **should** feel ashamed because I've let her down after all she's ever done for me."

"Regina, you haven't let anyone down," Emma says gently, but she can tell that her words are falling on deaf ears as Regina shakes her head and gazes sightlessly across the room.

"Morally deficient," Regina repeats, and it sounds like a dull echo of all the slurs that Emma's heard time and again over the years. "My mother says it's not in keeping with the tenets of the party she's always supported and invested in. So she's decided to put her resources behind another candidate instead."

"But you're her daughter!" Emma protests, then wishes she hadn't because the hurt expression that colors Regina's features is almost too much to witness.

"Not anymore," Regina says blankly. "Not now."

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	9. Chapter 9 - Actual Malice

"Harder!" Regina grinds out, thrashing on the bed and straining against the bonds around her wrists. Her face is contorted into an expression that looks about as far from pleasure as it's possible to get, but her eyes never leave Emma's face. They're hard and bright, almost merciless as she lifts her shoulders from the bed only to thump them back down again and let out a ragged noise of frustration.

"**Harder**, Emma!" she demands, thrusting upwards with her hips and glaring unforgivingly at Emma. "Make me feel it. Make it hurt."

Emma grits her teeth and curls her fingers around Regina's ankle, keeping it in place against her shoulder. Her breast bumps against Regina's calf and she inches forwards on her knees, trying to gain purchase before her hips begin their back and forth once more. She's tired: her lower back is starting to ache and there's a thin line of perspiration at her hairline, not to mention the fact that her heart is beating so fast that Emma can't help wondering if she's going to have a coronary right here and now. But she's valiant, if nothing else, and she grips Regina's leg even more firmly, lifting the other woman onto the dildo that she's driving in and out of her.

The strap on was Regina's idea. She'd turned up – late, as usual – at Emma's apartment and pushed a garish, neon pink bag into Emma's arms, announcing that it was high time they tried something different and, to that end, she'd purchased a harness and strap on.

"I assume you've worn one before, dear," Regina had said, something reminiscent of a sneer twisting her mouth.

"And you're basing your assumption on what, exactly?" Emma had frowned, because the way that Regina seems resentful of her history and her experience and her _everything_ when it comes to being gay is new. Totally new. And, Emma suspects, not _entirely_ unrelated to Regina's perceptions of herself or her new life now that her mother has effectively disowned her.

"On the fact that I know you," Regina had answered blithely, slipping off her blazer and folding it neatly over the back of one of the kitchen stools. "You really should get some coat hooks, Emma, if I'm going to be leaving my clothes here overnight."

"Who says you're staying?" Emma had retorted, but was stunned into silence when she'd opened the bag in her hands and withdrawn the soft leather harness and the rather huge dildo. Her wide eyes must have attracted Regina's attention because the next thing Emma knew, Regina was laughing softly and cupping Emma's face in her hand.

"You look rather shocked," Regina had said in a low, teasing tone. "Or have you suddenly gone all vanilla on me?"

"Regina," Emma had jerked her head back from the other woman's touch and looked at her with a mixture of affectionate reprove. "You've really got to **stop** reading all that lesbian crap online, seriously."

"And you've got to stop making smalltalk and come in the bedroom so you can tie me up and fuck me with that thing," Regina had darted back, sauntering away across the apartment.

And that's what Emma's doing now – or _trying_ to. She's panting heavily and even though Regina's tied up and naked, one leg against Emma's chest and the other splayed wide on the bed, it's not sexy. It should be, but it's not because Emma's starting to panic and Regina's starting to get angry. Emma can see it in the other woman's eyes; they're hard as flint and staring balefully at her. She can feel herself literally shrinking beneath their heavy gaze, as though she's visibly becoming smaller with each and every push of her hips.

"For God's sake!" Regina cries, and there's anguish in her voice, a desperation that isn't like all those times she begged Emma to make her come or pleaded for release. This is different. _Regina_ is different. And even though Emma's pounding into her hard enough to hear the slap of her skin on Regina's buttocks, it all seems to be rather futile. So much so that, by the time a trickle of sweat is working its way down Emma's temple, Regina lifts her leg from the bed and places it on Emma's chest, shoving at her hard enough to make her topple backwards.

"What the hell, Regina?" Emma pants, regaining her balance and watching as Regina twists and turns agitatedly on the bed.

"Untie me," Regina snaps. "Untie my goddamn hands right **now**!"

Emma leans forwards over Regina's body and tugs at one of the ties around the railing, loosening the soft rope around Regina's wrist enough so that the woman can slip her arm free. She sits back on her haunches as Regina pulls her other arm from the rope and then rubs at her wrists. They're pink where she's been restrained; her cheeks are pink too, but Emma knows _that's_ from anger and not arousal. Used to be that one would lead naturally to another, but Regina's anger isn't directed at her – Emma understands that with something of a sinking heart. She knows all about how to displace anger; how to turn it against those who are innocents and how to never deal with the real problem until it's so huge that it overwhelms everything.

Yes; Emma knows all about what happens when disappointment bleeds into everything and stains it until it's the only emotion that remains.

"It wasn't working for me, sorry, dear," Regina says abruptly, and casts a derisive glance down at the appendage between Emma's legs, glistening with lube and her own wetness.

"Yeah, I'm sorry too," Emma mutters, swiping the back of her hand across her sweaty brow and pushing at her slightly damp hair. "I thought it was what you wanted."

"So did I."

There's a moment – just a split second when their eyes meet – that Emma wonders if they're talking about the sex or if they're _actually_ talking about something else. Something that's been tense and quietly angry ever since Regina received that damning email from her mother. Emma's tried to bring it up in one way or another, but Regina is tight-lipped, stoic to the end like she's been carefully trained. It hurts, though, to be on the receiving end of what Emma knows is the mask Regina puts on when she deals with people. It's how she hides from them.

But Emma thought they were done with hiding from one another.

"How about we try something else?" Regina says with a strained smile. Emma almost laughs because the woman's tone and features are schooled into the sort of polite demeanor that's more fitting for a Senator than it is her girlfriend.

Emma shrugs, leaning back on the bed, the dildo waving lazily back and forth in front of her taut stomach. "Sure, if you want."

Regina gets onto all fours and stalks across the bed like a predator until she's almost on top of Emma, her lips inches from the blonde's. "What I want," she purrs, "is to have an orgasm. Some blessed relief from a very trying day and an even more taxing week. Do you think you can help me with that, Emma? Do you think it's within the realm of possibility that I might have that tonight, at all?"

Irritation flares in Emma's chest and she knows that she's being taunted, being played in the way that only Regina can do so effortlessly. But even as she recognizes it, she rises to it and her hands come up, gripping Regina's shoulders as the other woman leans in towards her.

"It might be," Emma says through gritted teeth, "if you stopped being such a righteous bitch to me and we **actually** fucked."

Regina's eyes widen, but they become dark, shining like onyx as she grins mirthlessly, baring her teeth as though preparing for battle. Maybe she is. Maybe, at the heart of it all, they're just too combative to love peaceably like other people do.

But then, Regina Mills has never really been one for doing things like other people. And, she suspects, neither has Emma Swan. That's the reason she finds the blonde so intriguing, so intensely aggravating and so undeniably attractive. Emma's difference is what makes her unique; what sets her apart from all the other adversaries Regina's encountered during her career.

So when she smiles, it's more than a little wicked and she pushes Emma back on the bed so that she can tower over the blonde, lifting her leg and straddling Emma's hips. The dildo is hard and cool between her legs and Regina slides along the length of it, closing her eyes at the contact. Her hands push into the mattress on either side of Emma's head and she rolls her hips, positioning herself so that when she thrusts down, she can feel the tip of the dildo inside her. Lifting a hand, Regina reaches down between their bodies and grabs it, holding it firmly so that she can guide it further in – far enough so that she's able to sink down onto it and let it fill her up.

It makes her hiss as it goes all the way in. It's a completely different sensation this way around and, looking down at Emma, Regina can tell that the other woman likes it too. Emma's hands slip up over her thighs, fingers curling around her hips and holding her steady as Regina begins to move up and down, slowly at first.

"You're fucking beautiful," Emma murmurs in a choked voice, gazing up at Regina and taking in the proud tilt of the other woman's chin, her body arched, rounded breasts with peaked nipples that are dark and inviting. When Regina looks back at her, Emma feels more naked than she's ever done: stripped bare of everything she layers herself with each day in order to provide some scant sort of protection. With Regina, Emma knows she would probably benefit from it but she can't quite bring herself to wear her armor anymore. There just doesn't seem any point because when they're like this – raw and unfettered and intimate – the danger of it all feels like a comfort. It's what they both know, after all.

Regina straightens and begins to move more forcefully, fucking herself on the dildo as Emma pushes up with her hips. At the point where they meet, both women let out a moan of pleasure and Regina reaches down, grabbing one of Emma's hands. Emma thinks she means to entwine their fingers but Regina shakes her head and fucks herself harder, bouncing up and down on Emma's hips. She bends, putting her weight onto one hand and, with the other, brings Emma's fingers to her throat.

"Please," she mutters, pressing Emma's thumb into the hollow just beneath her jaw, spreading Emma's fingers in a choke hold around her neck. "Please, Emma. I **need** it."

When Regina's hand drops, Emma's stays in place and she begins to squeeze gently. She can feel Regina swallow beneath her palm, muscle rippling under her skin. But it's the look in the other woman's eyes that arrests her more than the action itself; Regina looks desperate, wild. She's ramming herself down onto the dildo so hard that Emma can feel a dull thud of pain on her hips, but there's no stopping. There never is with Regina. It goes on, and so does she. Always.

"Harder," Regina croaks out, and Emma's unsure as to whether the other woman is commanding her, or whether it's a self-retributory insistence. Emma's fingers close tighter and Regina lets out a strangled noise of frustrated determination. Her eyes are closed now and she's lost in the rhythm she's keeping, abandoned in the wasteland of her own design as she slams down onto Emma's hips, her breathing harsh and restricted by Emma's own hand.

"Please," Regina hisses again, and her free hand comes up to wrap around Emma's wrist, keeping the blonde's hand in place on her throat, leaning down on it so that her cheeks start turn crimson.

"Regina," Emma says quietly, starting to frown. "Come on. Just let go. Let go."

Her entreaties appear to fall on deaf ears as Regina is caught in her own movement, contained by the drive towards release and the inherent need to have a moment of liberation, however fleeting. Regina grips Emma's wrist harder, pushes down on Emma's hand with more force, quickens her pace and drives her body onto the dildo as though it's a necessity. Maybe it is. But to Emma's eyes it looks wrong, somehow, as though Regina is punishing herself with the intensity of it all.

"Regina," Emma says again, this time a little louder. "Regina, honey, you need to breathe, okay? You need to breathe." She tries to remove her hand but Regina's grasp is too strong and Emma feels a flare of panic in her chest because Regina's breathing is shallow and frantic now. Her eyes are starting to bulge and her cheeks are bright red and if Emma doesn't remove her hand soon then –

Regina rears up, tearing Emma's hand from her throat and letting out a scream of sheer frustration as she throws back her head. Her chest heaving, she scrambles off of Emma and back to the top of the bed where she curls into a ball, arms wrapped around her knees. It's sudden and alarming and Emma sits up, staring at Regina for a long moment in something that's tantamount to horror.

Regina hides her face, dropping her head onto her knees and she's silent, but Emma can see how she's trembling slightly; how she's clutching her hands together so tightly that her knuckles are white.

Now Emma moves, pulling at the strap of the harness and undoing the buckle so that she can slither out of it and drop the entire thing over the side of the bed. Then she quickly moves up the bed and kneels in front of Regina, her hand hovering over the other woman's shoulder, unsure whether to touch or not.

"What's wrong?" Emma asks in a hushed tone. "Please, Regina, tell me what's wrong."

"I need it," Regina says, but her voice is hollow and muffled from where her head is caverned by her arms and knees. She sniffles and sighs heavily, shoulders hitching. "I need it, Emma. I need to have that…that feeling. I just – "

"I know," Emma touches Regina now, spreading her fingers across the other woman's shoulder and seeing how Regina leans towards her touch. "I know you need it."

Regina lifts her head and her eyes are red-rimmed, feverish. "I can't," she whispers, looking terrified. "I feel like I'm going to – I just feel like it's all – everything is just – "

"Hey, I know, okay?" Emma leans in and peers into Regina's face, sympathy written all over her features. "You feel like you need that release, yeah?"

Regina nods dumbly and her face creases into a frown. "Of all the things pulling me one way or another, this seemed like the easiest to manage. Except it's not," she sighs, scrubbing at her cheek with the back of her hand.

"Trust me on this," Emma says, shifting so that she's sitting beside Regina, "fucking away your problems seems like an easy solution, but in the end it just gets really meaningless, really quickly."

As Regina turns to look questioningly at her, Emma shrugs and gives the other woman a lopsided grin. "One night stands are a bit of a specialty of mine. No muss, no fuss, gone by morning."

"That sounds…" Regina begins, then stops, because it sounds _exactly_ like her own hasty sexual experiences with those she could rely upon to say nothing and forget the encounter as soon as it was over. It was why she selected the people she did; why she seduced them and then cast them off. Because it didn't mean anything.

"Lonely, yeah," Emma finishes for her and they incline their heads towards one another in tacit agreement. "And sometimes not feeling anything is an attractive option when what you feel sucks."

"I don't feel nothing for you, though," Regina admits quietly, and Emma's arm snakes around her shoulders. She leans into Emma, feeling the warmth of the other woman for real this time; not just a body, but a person. Someone real.

"I know," Emma replies. "That's why it's never going to be meaningless between us. Why you can't just switch off when you come here, to me."

"I just haven't really had time to process anything," Regina sighs, leaning more heavily against Emma. "My mother, she won't take any of my calls and I've been so busy and so tired with all that's been happening that I just…I just wanted five minutes of something that didn't terrify the hell out of me."

She grimaces; it feels horribly weak to confess all of this, as though all the assumed power and strength she's built up over the past decades have fallen away and left her vulnerable, exposed. Regina shivers, her breath hitching. As a politician, her mother had always taught her to couch the truth in words that told people what they wanted to hear. Honesty had never been the best policy as far as Cora Mills was concerned, even when it came to her own daughter.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Emma asks. "About your mom, I mean?"

"Even if I did, I'm not sure what to say," Regina tells her. "She's been the one constant in my life, especially after my father died. She's the reason I am where I am today and now that she's cut me off, I feel insignificant."

"God, Regina," Emma laughs and leans back a little as Regina's head jerks up and she stares at Emma, surprised by her mirth. "You're a lot of things, but insignificant **isn't** one of them. And the reason you are where you are today? That's all you. It **is**," Emma states emphatically as Regina opens her mouth to protest.

"**You're** the one people voted for, not your mother," Emma says disparagingly. "**You're** the one who's proud of your heritage and doesn't take any shit from the old boys' club. **You're** the one who – "

"Emma, stop." Regina puts a finger across Emma's lips and shakes her head. "That's not necessary. I know who I am and what I've done. But I would have done it a lot slower and with much more hardship had my mother not helped me."

Emma snorts softly but doesn't say anything and when Regina removes her finger, Emma leans in and captures the other woman's mouth in a kiss. If it's the only support she can give, then she'll give it willingly, for as long as Regina needs it.

They part, and Regina rests her forehead against Emma's. "But thank you anyway, dear. You're very – "

"If you say **kind,** then my reputation as a hard-nosed, heartless journalist is shot," Emma mutters and that, at least, brings a more genuine smile to Regina's lips.

"I was actually going to say that you're very calming," Regina sniffs, assuming an air of offense that she doesn't mean and that makes Emma grin wickedly.

"Nobody's ever said that about me before. I'm generally known to create chaos wherever I go."

"Yes, well," Regina says as Emma moves on the bed, kneeling before her, putting her hands onto Regina's knees, "you've certainly instigated rather a lot in my – what are you doing?"

Emma pushes Regina's legs apart and insinuates herself between them, scooting down on the bed so she's lying with her cheek against Regina's inner thigh. She glances up and meets Regina's gaze and smiles.

"Being chaotic. Or calming you. Whichever way it happens to turn out."

"You don't need to – "

"Yeah, I know," Emma turns her head and plants a kiss onto the fleshy, sensitive part of Regina's upper thigh, smiling as she feels the other woman shudder in response. "I **want** to, okay?"

She kisses Regina's inner thigh again, this time nibbling gently with her lips, and hooks her arms beneath Regina's legs. Emma places a line of kisses down each thigh until her lips brush against the neat patch of wiry dark hairs that cover puffy lips. Then, bending her head, Emma places a kiss against them, the tip of her tongue creeping out to swipe between and trace around Regina's hard clitoris. She hears the other woman gasp and feels Regina's hips shift, pushing towards her mouth.

Regina tastes like cherries – a surprising flavor of lube, Emma admits – but not unpleasantly so, and she licks her lips before diving back down again and using her tongue a little more forcefully. She laves a long line between Regina's lips, tasting the other woman and moaning softly. The sound is echoed from above her head and Emma can't help but move closer, one of her hands sliding from Regina's leg to follow the path her tongue forged in wetness and heat. Parting the slick flesh, Emma sucks Regina's clitoris between her lips and flicks at it with the tip of her tongue, circling around and around and around until Regina's hips begin to roll tremulously with each sweep.

Emma takes two fingers and pushes them inside Regina, nails scraping through sticky heat until she curls them and they sink into the soft pad of flesh that makes Regina cry out and jerk her hips upwards. Emma thinks she hears Regina say her name, but it's lost in the babble that comes from the other woman: entreaties, demands, grateful exhalations that come in fits and starts as Emma presses harder with her mouth and adds another finger, corkscrewing them around inside Regina.

Her fingertips push down on the most sensitive part of Regina, deep inside. Her tongue flicks back and forth over Regina's clitoris: fast and unrelenting and eliciting repeated cries of pleasure that resonate in Emma's spine and start a throbbing between her legs. She wants to lose herself in this; in giving Regina the release she needs. But she wants to give the other woman meaning, too. This is no careless gesture, nor is it something they can forget. And they'll keep returning to one another so that they can savor these moments and indulge in them – indulge in one another the way that nobody else has, or will, Emma thinks to herself.

It's shocking, really, how they've fallen into this relationship and how it's become more than the physical. Yet it's in the physical that they can be truly themselves and cast aside the machinations of a world that seeks to contain them. As Regina's pelvis rises from the bed and her hands reach behind her to grip the metal railing on the headboard, Emma can feel the tension building in Regina's thighs. She can feel the surge towards release and hear the quickened breaths as Regina's chest rises and falls. It's quite the rush, Emma thinks, to have this sort of power over someone else. She always used to let it embolden her, but with Regina, Emma feels humble; she feels grateful that she's able – finally – to share this with someone. With the woman who is moving and pulsating and opening up under her lips and her tongue and her touch like a night blooming flower: dark and heady and intoxicating.

"That's right," Emma breathes, and the air is full of Regina; the very ether tastes like Regina and smells like Regina and is, completely, Regina. "Yeah, that's right," Emma says again as she dips her head and flicks her tongue so fast over Regina's clitoris that the other woman whines and rises under her mouth. Emma's fingers begin to move in and out of Regina, almost to the tip before they plunge back in again right up to the knuckle. Her fingers are curled, catching that achingly sensitive spot every time, pressing in, then retreating through soaking flesh only to return and do it all again.

When Regina comes, it's with a gasping, sighing breath of guttural relief. She rises from the bed, poised in the air for a second, and then falls back, shuddering and shaking and blindly reaching for Emma as she cries out. There's something like aftershock that takes hold of her, and she trembles as Emma crawls up beside her and holds her close, whispering words of comfort and closeness that Regina clearly needs to hear. Regina curls herself into a tiny ball, fitting against Emma's chest as her orgasm begins to lose intensity and she tries to catch her breath as it recedes.

Then she's gulping in air and trying to talk but the words simply won't come out. Emma strokes her hair and holds her tightly enough to let the other woman know that she's there, that she's not leaving, that she's not running away. If she could say the words she feels, then Emma might make pledges like _always_ and _forever_, even if she doesn't really believe in that sort of longevity. But Regina makes her _want_ to believe in them, and maybe that's half the battle, after all.

"It's okay," Emma murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Regina's head. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm here."

There's a moment of silence before Regina is shuddering again in her arms, only this time Emma can feel the hot splash of tears on her neck and hear the uneven, jagged sobs that wrack the other woman's body.

"She abandoned me," Regina croaks out, and a fresh wave of tears judders through her body, moving her against Emma. "I tried to be good – I **was** good – and she – she left me anyway."

"I know," Emma says. Because she does. Because _she_ was abandoned too and through no fault of her own. It strikes her as particularly damning, what Cora's done to Regina, and she offers up silent thanks that at least she never knew her parents. She never had the opportunity to adore them, to love them, to trust that they loved her too.

But the fatal truth – the honesty that Emma can't possibly share with Regina – is that everyone leaves, sooner or later. And when it's later, it hurts _so_ much more.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	10. Chapter 10 - Private Good

Emma stretches out her legs under the auspicious eye of Kathryn Nolan, to whom she offers a bright smile that belies the nagging feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. She's been waiting for at least twenty minutes longer than is absolutely necessary and she can't help feeling like Kathryn Nolan has a lot to do with it. For someone who has her own office, Kathryn has found plenty to do that keeps her hovering outside the door to Regina's, casting baleful glances over at Emma now and then as though the blonde is the source of any and all problems in the Senatorial office.

Emma glances at her cellphone, checking the time, before shoving it back into the pocket of her leather jacket with a deep sigh. Her editor will _not_ be pleased if she botches this – it's the first decent story he's given her in months. Of course, she knows why he's done it, _the bastard_, but even his attempts to get under her skin can't prevent her from wanting to do a good job. Maybe it's an opportunity to show people – show everyone – that she's not a liability to the profession.

Or maybe it's just an opportunity to show _herself_.

Either way, Emma's starting to feel restless and, as Kathryn Nolan looks over at her again with a hard, icy stare, Emma's also starting to feel judged. It's not an unusual feeling, of course. Her childhood was liberally sprinkled with moments of judgment: the time her foster parents had to return her to the group home because she had, as they put it, "issues with authority"; the times when other children were taken away to a new life and a new home and new parents but Emma was found somehow wanting and had to stay behind. There were big judgments like that, and then little ones that picked away at her sense of self and her confidence. She'd grown into an angry child and a resentful adult, conscious that she'd been a victim of circumstance rather than of her own actions. But knowing that didn't make her feel any better about seeing the look in people's eyes when they'd formed an opinion about her based on…well, Emma huffs quietly to herself with a sideways glance at Kathryn Nolan, very little at all.

When the door to Regina's office finally opens, Kathryn is on her feet at once, rushing towards it and greeting Regina enthusiastically, gesturing over her shoulder towards Emma and saying something in a low voice that Emma can't quite catch. She stands anyway and, as Regina looks at her, smiles a little more hesitantly than she probably should. But it's weird, being here in an official capacity and, from the faint smile that Regina gives her, it seems like it's weird for the Senator, too.

"Miss Swan," Regina says warmly, standing to one side and sweeping a hand through the doorway of her office. "Won't you come in?"

It's horribly impersonal. Regina has that practiced expression on her face that Emma's seen countless times before and she makes eye contact but Regina's gaze is fixed and empty. Emma walks into Regina's office and frowns, turning on her heel instantly and glaring at Regina because, sure, they've agreed to keep it professional when they're in one another's wheelhouse but this feels so awkward.

"Regina, I – " Emma begins, but Regina glowers at her and shakes her head, just once, before jerking her chin towards her desk at the far end of the room.

Emma looks over to see a rather mousey, very young girl hunched over the end of Regina's desk, sorting rapidly through a sheaf of papers. She doesn't even look up at them until Regina strides into the center of the room and clasps her hands together.

"Thank you, Susan," she says, and the girl's head snaps up as she looks at Regina with that mixture of admiration and awe that Emma's observed on Senatorial interns a hundred times before. "That'll be all for today."

"Oh," the girl responds, her face instantly downcast. "I was just – your schedule for tomorrow isn't quite finished yet, Senator, and I was thinking that if you wanted me to stay late that's not a problem – just so I can help you get things in order before you – "

"It's fine, Susan," Regina says, and she walks over to the girl, sliding her hand around Susan's elbow. "You've done a wonderful job today and I'm very grateful, but it's really not necessary for you to stay any longer than you need to." As she speaks, she's steering Susan away from the desk and across the room. Emma has to turn her head as they pass her in case the smirk on her face is all too evident.

"But – but Senator, it's no trouble, really!" Susan insists even as Regina's thrusting her firmly through the doorway to her office. "I'm happy to – "

"I know you are, dear," Regina says, giving Susan a winning smile. "But Miss Swan has come to interview me so there's no more work to be done tonight. Not for **you**, anyway," she adds, with a conspiratorial roll of her eyes.

"Miss Swan?" Susan repeats, looking at Emma for the first time. "**Emma** Swan?"

"Hey," Emma says, shrugging a little as the girl stares at her in what looks like burgeoning disappointment.

"Oh," Susan sighs, shoulders slumping a little. "**Oh**. Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow, dear," Regina says, nodding at the girl. She catches sight of Susan's hand, lifted in a rather lame attempt at a wave goodbye before she grasps the doorhandle and closes the door to her office. Once shut, Regina turns and leans against it, heaving a huge sigh.

"Looks like you got Susan's vote," Emma intones with a wry grin.

Regina narrows her eyes and reaches up, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Susan is an extremely hardworking member of my team; she's a very bright girl with a sound education."

"Yeah," Emma snorts, "and a great big honkin' crush on you."

"Emma," Regina says, pushing herself off from the door and walking across the office to her desk. "That's…that's a highly inappropriate suggestion."

"Uh huh, so's a politician and a journalist having a relationship but I hear it happens," Emma grins wickedly and ignores the glare she receives in response. Her gaze turns a little avaricious as Regina picks up her glasses and slides them up her nose. Emma has to admit that if she was an intern, working closely with Regina every day, then she'd probably have a crush on the Senator, too. Because in her dark suit, tastefully tailored just above the knee, and her gray, silk shirt, Regina cuts a striking figure. Imposing to some. Inherently attractive to Emma.

And, Emma thinks with a faint snicker of laughter, to Susan. _That poor girl_.

"I did wonder why you were so formal at the door," Emma says, sauntering across the office. "I mean, I know we said we'd try to keep up appearances but for a second there…well…you kinda worried me."

Regina looks up from the papers on her desk, tilting her head to one side, clearly confused. "Worried you?" She stares at Emma for a moment until she reaches some clarity and then her face softens as she moves around the desk and leans on its edge just in front of Emma.

"You and I said that this would be professional so I was just abiding by the rules we both set," Regina explains gently. "Also, my intern was in the room and Kathryn was just outside."

"Watching me like a hawk," Emma butts in, and Regina's mouth twitches in a little smile. "No, seriously," Emma adds, "she was giving me some major stinkeye. Does she hate me or something?"

"Of course not," Regina answers quickly. Too quickly for Emma's liking. "Kathryn doesn't look at you and I as a couple. She looks at the ramifications for my political career. She always has. And she's damn good at her job."

"Watching me like a **hawk**," Emma intones slowly.

"Yes, dear," Regina says. "She's suspicious of journalists and who can blame her, given recent events?"

"But I'm not just a – " Emma starts, then bites at her lower lip and lets out a grating sigh. "Okay. Rules. I'm a journalist and you're the Senator, right?"

"That's right," Regina nods, and gestures towards the plush seating area to one side of the office. Two couches face each other over a small, low coffee table in front of the fireplace that dominates almost an entire wall. It's ostentatious and, Emma thinks as she follows Regina over, completely befitting the sort of atmosphere any self-respecting Senator would want to create. As they sit, Emma can't help rolling her eyes and puffing out her cheeks a little. She silently curses her editor for putting her in this position in the first place, then herself for accepting the story.

However, Emma tells herself, if Regina can put a stoic face on it all, then so can she. They're nothing if not competitive in all the right ways, after all.

"You know," Emma pulls out her notebook from the satchel she has slung over one shoulder, "a lot of people might see this as a great opportunity for some sexual role play."

One of Regina's eyebrows arches and she peers at Emma over the rims of her glasses. "And a lot of people might see this as a great opportunity to resurrect their journalistic reputation with an insightful one on one interview."

"Hey!" Emma reaches into her satchel once more and pulls out her trusty digital recorder, switching it on and putting it onto the table between them. "There's no resurrecting," she huffs. "My career isn't dead, thank you very much. It's just…it's just…"

"Resting?" Regina suggests, crossing one leg over the other and smoothing down some invisible wrinkles in her immaculate skirt. There's a prosaic expression on her face but her eyes are sharp, gleaming behind her glasses as she stares innocently at Emma.

"You really **are** the Evil Queen," Emma mutters with a sullen push of her lips. "I mean, you've even got little minions slavishly running around tending to your every whim."

"Hardly," Regina snorts. "But now you mention it, that does sound like something I can raise at our next staff meeting with Kathryn."

Emma's nostrils flare and she flips through a few pages of her notebook until she finds the scrawl of ideas she'd come up with when prepping this interview. She scans them and then looks over at Regina, sitting primly and waiting patiently for her to begin.

"Okay," Emma says, clearing her throat and leaning forwards, elbows on knees, "so, Senator Mills, can you talk a little about your preparations for re-election? It's assumed you'll be running again, but how have things changed for you since your…since your statement several months ago and how will that have an impact on your campaign this time around?"

Regina draws in a breath and straightens her back. "How have things changed for me?" she repeats. "Well, I appear to be sleeping alone a lot less. And I've found that sharing a bathroom with someone isn't all it's cracked up to be, quite frankly."

"Regina!" Emma hisses, reaching forwards and tapping at her digital recorder, switching it off. "Can you please take this seriously?"

"I'm sorry dear," Regina says, trying to suppress her mirth but failing miserably. "But you're so earnest. It's very endearing."

"Gee, thanks for the condescension," Emma grunts. "And, for the record, sharing a bathroom with your amount of potions and lotions isn't all it's cracked up to be, either."

"It's not condescension," Regina is quick to point out, leaning forwards a little. "I'm trying to – it's my way of – " She clamps her lips together and shakes her head, clearly troubled. Rising from the couch, she walks to a small table in the corner and clinks glasses together, pulling the stopper from a crystal decanter.

"This isn't easy for me," Regina says, her back turned to Emma so the blonde can't see the way her face is working around words she won't say and feelings she can barely contain. "And I'm afraid I'll say something I shouldn't because of our familiarity with one another. I've lived a very guarded life, Emma. But with you, I'm able to be open and honest and that's…"

She turns, two glasses of amber liquid in her hands and she sighs as she observes Emma's expression: it's curious and cynical and open all at the same time. "Well," Regina says, walking back to the couches and placing the glasses on the table between them, "it's a rather precarious position to be in. Liberating, yes. But also dangerous."

She reaches for one of the glasses and holds it in front of her before sipping at the contents, leaning back on the couch and crossing her legs.

"So…is this because you **don't** trust me or because you **do**?" Emma asks. "Because what you just said – it's all kind of confusing for me."

"It's confusing for me, too," Regina answers, replacing her glass on the table. She runs her palms down the lines of her skirt and then clasps her hands together in her lap. "I want to tell you everything, Emma. But Kathryn insists that I should be wary of doing that because, frankly, there's already been enough of my private life exposed against my will."

"Yeah, I don't know whether you noticed but I was in those pictures too," Emma says grimly. "And even if your little intern didn't recognize my face, she sure knew my name and what it means in relation to you."

"I'm not entirely sure it was your **face** anyone was looking at in those photographs," Regina murmurs with a wry smile that quickly fades as she considers how they're both trying to claw something back for themselves as individuals, while at the same time attempting to maintain a relationship. "But I'm afraid, should we stay together, that you're only going to be more open to public scrutiny. As is your work."

"I can be impartial," Emma tells her. "I mean, shit, Regina, I don't agree with your politics and I certainly don't agree with your party. That hasn't changed."

"But **we** have," Regina says bluntly. "At least, I know **I** have."

"How?" Emma leans forwards again inquisitively, picking up her glass and swigging at the liquid inside, smacking her lips together at the sweetness of the apple cider as it trickles down her throat.

"Because I care deeply about something other than my career now."

It's not the most romantic of declarations but Emma's hand still trembles a little as she holds the glass and she gazes down into it for a second before putting it back onto the table.

"You do understand what I'm trying to say, don't you?"

When Emma looks up, Regina's eyes are luminous behind her glasses. They're shining with something that Emma's always wondered about – wondered whether all the flowery descriptions of it are ever true. She remembers studying poetry in college and dismissing so much of it as impossible because people simply didn't – couldn't – feel that way about each other. Love was torture. Love was pain. Love was something Emma had never really had the benefit of until she was old enough to understand that, mostly, love was a construct manufactured by those willing to believe it existed.

Only, it never really had done in Emma's life. She'd come close to something more tangible than friendship, but the truths in her life had always superseded the faith other people seemed to show in love. So much so, that Emma had just stopped believing that it was for her, or she for it.

"Emma?"

"Yes," Emma replies quickly. "Yes, I – I understand."

"Being with me has already hurt you enough and I would prefer it didn't hurt you again," Regina says. "My mother always used to tell me that love is weakness and I'm afraid that, in this case, perhaps she's right."

"She's **not**." Emma's voice is thick and she swallows hard as she gazes at Regina. "And it's pretty clear that that woman doesn't know shit about love otherwise she wouldn't have treated you so crappily."

"Succinctly put, as always," Regina hums, but she feels something stir in her chest at the passion of Emma's response and how quick she is to leap to her defense. For someone who never knew her own parents and suffered at the hands of countless others, Regina has to admire Emma's belief in what a parent should be. It makes her feel a little less alone; a little less responsible for Cora's absence in her life and the intimation that it's all her fault.

"Well, maybe I care deeply about something other than my career too," Emma bristles, then sags on the couch and leans forwards again, head hanging down. "Being with you doesn't hurt me, Regina," she says quietly, glancing up at the other woman.

"Being without you though…that might," Emma confesses, then looks down at the ground again because Regina's face is too much to bear and her throat is beginning to ache with the emotion that she's constantly keeping at bay. It's funny, really, how Regina is the one to talk about caution when it's Emma who's been exercising it all this time.

When she looks up, Regina is smiling at her and Emma's momentarily transfixed by the soft glow of the other woman, how she's looking at her with eyes glistening behind her glasses. It's the antithesis of the woman Regina purports to be with everyone else and it's uncommonly beautiful. _She's beautiful_, Emma thinks, and hears her breath hitch in her throat, stuck as time seems to slow.

It's Regina who breaks the moment, clearing her throat and pushing at her glasses. Her fingers stray to her hair and she brushes a strand back, making a show of neatening herself even though she doesn't need to.

"Well," she says, her voice low. "So now we know."

Emma nods. "Yeah. Now we know."

"And," Regina says, "I've been contacted by the Hispanic Leadership Network." She watches as Emma's eyes widen and her hand reaches forwards for her digital recorder, switching it on. And suddenly they're all business again. It's almost a relief. "They want me to join them in a new initiative to provide a platform for the Hispanic community to connect with center-right policies and leaders. It's really quite a fantastic opportunity for me."

"If you don't mind selling out your heritage to Jeb Bush," Emma snorts softly, and sees Regina's face darken immediately.

"I've been noticed, Emma," Regina says with a hint of reprove. "And whatever you might think of the person organizing it, the initiative itself has good intentions. We're trying to open up the Republican party to a largely disenfranchised section of the voting population. And we're appealing to the Hispanic community with a range of policies that might, in the end, serve to benefit them."

"Like?"

"Social conservatism, positions for private school vouchers, other school choice proposals as well as lower taxes," Regina says, ticking off the list on her fingers. Her voice changes as she talks, and Emma realizes that she's interviewing the Senator, make no mistake. The Regina she's become accustomed to and – she secretly admits to herself – prefers fades away as the politician takes over and eyes Emma with something like challenge in her bespectacled eyes.

"Social conservatism," Emma repeats, leaning back on the couch and resting an ankle on her knee. "You mean like anti-abortion policies and the opposition to gay marriage?"

"No faction is perfect," Regina responds. "And it's a wonderful opportunity for someone like me."

"Someone like you, huh?" Emma's hand grasps her ankle and her notebook falls onto the couch beside her thigh. "Someone who's recently come out as gay, you mean? Sure, how could joining a group that actively wants to legislate against someone like you be **anything** like even remotely harmful?"

"It's politics. It's not ideal, but it's a chance for me to make a change," Regina says emphatically. "It's a chance for me to actually do something to connect with people instead of hiding away in – what was it you said? – my ivory tower all the time?"

"Jesus, Regina, if you want to get more involved in party politics and do something to connect with people, why the hell don't you join the Log Cabin Republicans? At least they're trying to do something useful instead of patronizing the shit out of a community that your party doesn't think should be in the United States in the first place."

"That's ridiculous!" Regina glowers.

"**Is** it?" Emma's ankle slips from her knee and she leans forwards, chin jutting out in annoyance. "So you and your best friend Jeb are just going to ignore the subject of immigration, then?"

Regina's cheeks flush a little but she doesn't say anything. It's probably best not to. When she'd first received the call from the HLN, she'd been somewhat disheartened. If all she was going to be reduced to was a sum of her parts – if that's all she was worth to the party she'd campaigned for all these years, then what use was she at all? Of course, the HLN had been very persuasive and had outlined all the unique ways in which Regina's goals and theirs were aligned. But she'd ended the telephone call feeling more than a little disillusioned by what might lie ahead for her. And all that lay behind: largely ignored.

"The Log Cabin Republicans are little more than a pressure group," Regina finally says, keeping her voice calm with some effort. "And my sexuality shouldn't have any bearing on my work because it's simply not important. What's important is the – "

"Okay," Emma interrupts, reaching forwards and grabbing her digital recorder, switching it off. "I think I've heard enough. I mean, I'm here pouring my heart out to you and you're sitting there telling me that sexuality isn't an issue. Except it is. Except several months ago you were only too happy to tell the entire fucking world how gay you are and how it's important to be honest about it."

"That's not the same thing at all," Regina huffs.

"No, what's not the same is that you're ignoring one minority group in favor of another to support the policies of a party that doesn't actually like minority groups at all. Any of them! But hey, that's okay as long as you're getting further up that ladder they're holding out to you. Better just watch out for when they start greasing it so you just keep sliding on back down again, right?"

Emma's tirade ends with a gulp as she realizes she's hit home. Regina's face is pale, stricken with realization and she's breathing heavily as she stares across the space between them. This is what happens when you make rules, Emma tells herself. If she was _just_ a journalist, she wouldn't really care about anything other than the story. And if Regina was _just_ a Senator, then she wouldn't care what Emma thinks. But it's clear they both do: they both care far too much.

"I think this interview is pretty much over," Emma mutters, gathering her things together and stuffing them inside her leather satchel. "Don't worry, I'll write you up as a serious contender for re-election and a shining example of what the Republican party can do for the minority vote. I'm sure that all those disenfranchised voters, as you call them, will **totally** relate to your wealthy background and private education."

She's on her feet and storming across the office when Regina's voice stops her, calling her name in a strained, high-pitched tone that makes Emma pause. She's sick of this. She's tired of being put into situations where she simply can't win and isn't even sure she wants to. Life shouldn't be a battle – and she knows all about entering the fray. She's been fighting for most of her life, after all, and she's starting to get tired. It just felt as though she and Regina had something that didn't require combat quite so often; that they were reaching a détente that both were reasonably happy with.

_Stupid_, Emma chides herself. She should have known that being lulled into a false sense of security is the one surefire way to make everything fall apart.

Turning on her heel, she sees Regina looking at her, pained and tense. She pats the couch beside her and tilts her head to one side. "Please, come and sit," she entreats. "Please, Emma. Don't leave like this."

Begrudgingly, Emma sighs, hitching her satchel up over her shoulder and trudges back across the office, dropping down beside Regina. Her satchel drops onto the floor near her feet and Emma purses her lips, trying to avoid eye contact.

"I can't do this, Regina," Emma says under her breath. "It's just too fucking hard to be me when you're being…well, whoever it is you're being these days."

"I know," Regina says, and now Emma looks at her, brow furrowed. "I do understand, Emma," Regina insists. "It's difficult for me too. But I **need** to do this – I **have** to if I'm going to stand any chance of being re-elected. I need to raise my profile and gather support from within the party, not marginalize myself."

"Then maybe fucking a journalist and copping to it in front of the media might not have been the best move ever," Emma grumbles.

"That's not what I'm saying at all," Regina frowns. "I'm not ashamed of who I am, Emma. And I'm not ashamed of being with you, either. But it's not **all** I am and it's not all I want to present myself as, either."

"But you have to understand that if you **do** take up a position within the HLN, it's going to look like backtracking. I mean, it feels like you're backtracking to me already."

Regina can hear the worry in Emma's voice and she feels it coming off the other woman in waves. It's amplified by her own anxiety, by the delicate situation of balancing this unexpected personal life with a professional one that's always been a priority. Even if it wasn't completely by her own design, Regina knows that she's been dedicated to her career at the cost of everything else. It's unsettling, then, to acknowledge that if she wants to remain dedicated, it will be to the detriment of something that has started to open up her world in primal, basic and necessary ways.

The simple fact of the matter is that she can't do without Emma. Not anymore. She doesn't even want to.

"My mother has considerable resources and money to lend to promoting a candidate," Regina begins, and Emma nods, shrugging a little. "Now she's withdrawn them from me, I need to try and gain support in other areas, from other people."

"I understand that," Emma responds, "but for the love of Christ, Regina, you're a gay Republican. You could do **so** much good."

"Not if I don't get re-elected," Regina tells her, and sighs deeply. She looks down at her hands, clasped together on her lap, fingers worrying each other. "I've heard that my mother has decided to endorse another candidate: someone who may want to run against me."

"Oh?" Emma turns to face the other woman, sitting sideways on the couch, one arm lying along its back. "Someone's going to run against you on your mother's dime? Who?"

"Rupert Gold," Regina says, with some difficulty. She sees recognition dawn on Emma's face: surprise slowly turning to disgust. "He's an old friend of my mother's – from before she ever met my father. She's always been politically minded but the time was never right for her to stand as a candidate. So instead, she worked with Gold until I was – until she asked him to – "

Regina's lip curls and she stops talking for fear of what she might say. Not that she has to say anything to communicate the difficulties of her youth to Emma; there's an expression burgeoning on the blonde's face that Regina never wanted to see. Sympathy, maybe. Empathy, perhaps. Pity – the one thing she can't abide and wants to repel as much as is possible. But it's there nonetheless and Regina shifts uncomfortably under the sheen in Emma's eyes.

"He taught me a lot about politics," is what she settles for, grimacing a little at the memories that flutter through her mind like leaves in Fall: brittle and hard-edged.

"I **bet** he did – he's been around the political world forever," Emma murmurs. "Wasn't there a rumor about him a few years back? Something to do with that young girl he took up with – her father objected or something and Gold basically kept her in his house?"

Regina swallows and repositions herself, assuming the detached posture of someone who is experienced at fending off difficult questions and giving equally difficult answers.

"Rupert Gold is a very…he's a very decisive man," she tells Emma. "He has a way of getting what he wants and, if he wants my Senatorial seat, then my mother's money and connections are probably going to make that happen. And I can't – I have to do whatever it takes to stop that."

Emma leans in, peering into Regina's face and her heart clenches at the anxiety she sees there, written in deep lines over the other woman's brow and around her eyes. Without even thinking, she lifts her hand and places her palm against Regina's cheek. It's the first contact they've had since she walked into the office and it resonates through them both, rippling down their entire bodies.

"Rupert Gold is a dinosaur," Emma states firmly, her thumb tracking a line along the top of Regina's cheek. "And your mother is a vengeful woman who wants you all to herself. It's got nothing to do with politics, Regina. It's all to do with scoring points – I mean, you have to know that, right?"

"Rationally, yes," Regina inclines her head a little before she reaches up, grasping Emma's wrist in her fingers and turning her head to place a gentle kiss against the blonde's palm. "But she's my **mother**, Emma. And despite everything she and Rupert Gold have in common, I know that she wants me to prove myself to her. The way she sees me now is as part of some grubby lifestyle that she simply can't approve of."

"You don't need her approval to live your life, Regina. You don't need anyone's approval to do that." Emma's vehemence makes Regina smile and she can't help but want to indulge in the courage that the blonde seems to exude so easily. It's a strength that's pure; it comes from a heart that Regina fervently hopes beats for her, just as hers beats for Emma. And she has to wonder at what that strength might bring her, should she only let it.

"Unfortunately," Regina says wryly, letting go of Emma's hand, "I'm going to need **some** approval rating if I'm going to win my seat again. And without the sort of backing my mother offers, living my life is going to be a series of very carefully chosen decisions in order to make that happen."

"Well, I'd say that you've got my vote but…" Emma sighs.

Regina's hand cups her chin and tilts her head up. Their lips meet in a kiss that deepens into something raw, something that has them grasping at one another and pressing themselves together. It's almost bittersweet, Regina thinks, and the feeling puts a lump in her throat and an inherent need in her chest that wraps itself around her heart and won't let go.

"Emma," Regina whispers as they part and Emma's head drops onto her shoulder in what seems like defeat. "Don't you know by now? It's not your vote I want."

She almost laughs as Emma lifts her head and gazes into her eyes, brows furrowed, green eyes clouded with worry.

"Then what **do** you want?" Emma asks in a small voice. "From me, I mean. What can I possibly give you that means anything at all?"

"Everything else," Regina says simply.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	11. Chapter 11 - Checks and Balances

It's dark by the time Emma reaches Regina's mansion. She laughs inwardly because Regina's home isn't really a mansion at all, but it's big enough and fancy enough to make Emma view it like some sort of plantation home instead of the roomy house that it actually is. She wanders up the path and lets herself in – they're at the stage now where they have keys and Emma's trying not to linger too long on that and what it might mean – then closes the door gently behind her.

"Regina?" she calls out, craning her neck around the doorway to the expansive living room and seeing a couple of lamps lit but hearing no response. Sighing, she kicks off her boots and wanders into the room. Regina's sitting in one of the large armchairs, legs curled beneath her. On her lap, capturing her attention, is a folded newspaper and she's peering down at it through her glasses.

"Hey," Emma says, shrugging off her jacket and throwing herself into the chair opposite Regina's. "What's up? I called but you didn't answer."

Regina glances up at her, frowning, as though she's only just noticed her presence. Then she takes a little breath and looks down at the newspaper on her lap, tapping at it with a single finger. Emma doesn't need to study it to know what it is – she's been dragging her heels getting here tonight precisely _because_ of that blasted thing. Her article was published in today's issue, promising an in-depth profile of and interview with Senator Mills. _Only_, Emma thinks grimly, _that's not really how it turned out_.

"Reading the funnies?" Emma attempts a joke, but Regina's mouth forms a hard line and the blonde sighs a little. She doesn't need this. Not tonight and not really _anytime_. Not after the dressing down her editor gave her when she turned in her first draft of the article. He berated her several times after that, with each successive rewrite until…

Emma stretches out her legs and slumps in the chair. Until he got a version that he was willing to publish.

"I can assure you," Regina says rather pompously, "that there's very little to laugh about on the pages of this rag."

"Oh, how I love the cut and thrust of your assessment of modern journalism," Emma retorts. She can feel the air thicken between them, like ichor. It's a portent of something bad, she knows that only too well. Regina's nostrils flare as she glares at Emma, then down at the newspaper on her lap.

"Is this what you think of me?" she asks, and there's a bitter, disillusioned tone to her voice that makes Emma cringe inwardly. "Everything I told you has been twisted and – and perverted!"

"Look, I can explain – " Emma begins, but Regina raises a hand to silence her, then glares back down at the newspaper on her lap.

"Senator Mills, who recently made a heartwarming and uncharacteristically emotional statement regarding her personal life, appears to be pointedly focusing on other aspects of her personality of late," Regina reads aloud, then looks up at Emma, her jaw hardening. "Heartwarming and uncharacteristically emotional?" she says incredulously.

"Regina, I didn't write that," Emma says quickly.

"Oh **really**?" Regina's eyebrows rise and she squints down at the paper over the top of her glasses. "But it has your name right here," she says deliberately, tapping at the dark print. "Emma Swan: political correspondent. That is **you**, isn't it, dear?"

Emma's mouth twists at the sound of Regina's voice; it's icy-calm and composed enough to send a chill of prescient danger down her spine. She leans forwards, lifting her knees so that she can rest her elbows onto them. Expecting this and actually being in the middle of it are two _very_ different things, she thinks. Because she expected Regina to be angry; she expected Regina to be upset, but Emma didn't – and couldn't – possibly account for her own reaction to it. As her heart sinks and her chest begins to ache, Emma finds herself wanting to do anything to make Regina look at her with warmth again.

"Yes, it's me," Emma sighs. "But I didn't write that!"

"Then somebody ought to inform your editor that an interloper is writing under your name, if that's the case," Regina tells her, and looks back down at the article again. "In a move to appeal to specific sections of the voting community, Senator Mills has aligned herself with the Hispanic Leadership Network, operating under the guidance of Jeb Bush. This can be interpreted as a direct appeal to the sort of heavy-handed power-mongering that Bush and his acolytes take with sensitive issues, or it could be interpreted as Mills' willingness to leap onto any bandwagon that can carry her through another election towards a win."

"I didn't write that either," Emma says, but Regina is stony-faced, staring down at the paper.

"And, despite her assumed bravery in stepping forwards to talk openly about her sexuality, Senator Mills now apparently finds herself treading a fine right-wing line between appealing to any minority group that will have her and impressing the grand old boys of her party," Regina continues reading. When she stops, she looks up at Emma again and there's real hurt on her features.

"Is this what you think of me?" she asks. "That I'm playing some sort of **game**? That I lack emotional authenticity?"

"Not me," Emma returns. "I'm not the one playing games, Regina."

"What's **that** supposed to mean?"

"That my editor is an asshole who sent me to interview you so he could humiliate us **both**," Emma says in a rough voice of discontent. "I wrote an article based on the interview we did, okay? And it wasn't until he returned it for the third time that I realized he'd sent me to see you because he knew you'd talk to me in a different way than you do other journalists. And he also knew that once I had information, he could twist it whichever way he wanted in order to publish **that**." Emma points at the newspaper on Regina's lap and her face screws up into an expression of disgust.

"Kathryn was right, then," Regina murmurs to herself, shaking her head. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"How could we **both**?" Emma says. "He **played** us, Regina."

"Did he really?" Regina fixes Emma with a piercing gaze, made all the more stentorian by her rigid posture, legs sliding from beneath her body so that her feet plant firmly on the carpet beneath them. "You were quite open with your disapproval, Emma. So is this what you think I am? An opportunist? Someone who would lie about their sexuality for…what? A publicity stunt to gain a minority vote?"

"Jesus, Regina!" Emma spits, her anxiety fading in light of the hot spurt of anger in her chest. "I never said you were a liar and whatever I think of your politics or the way you choose to exhibit them, I wouldn't write something that said you were!"

"Then what the hell is **this**?" Regina hisses, brandishing the newspaper in her hand like it's a weapon before she hurls it towards Emma. As it lands at the blonde's feet, Emma lets out a noise of sheer frustration, hands curling into fists that she clenches and bangs down onto her knees.

"It's a fucking set up, that's what it is!" she bellows. "You know as well as I do that print is dying out and my editor wants a story that will keep people reading the paper as well as getting hits on our website. This is great for business, Regina. You of all people should understand that."

"I understand that your name being on that story makes me look like a fool," Regina darts back.

"Yeah?" Emma nods fiercely. "And what does it make **me** look like, huh? You have **no** idea how this affects me, do you? Because all you can see is **your** career on the line. Mine doesn't matter, does it?"

There's a rawness to Emma's voice that silences Regina momentarily and she takes a breath, holds it, then lets it out slowly. Perhaps she's always been selfish; perhaps it was bred into her along with detachment and isolation and the rejection of anything that could crawl into her chest and make it clench so hard that she wants to lie down and cry in a corner somewhere.

"You have no idea how hard this is for **me**," Emma says, a little more under control now but with a distinct wobble to her voice. "If I want to succeed, I have to forget about whatever personal relationship I have with you. If I want my job to be what my editor says it must be, then I have to let him put my name to shit like this instead of what I originally wrote."

She shakes her head in exasperation, then reaches down to where her satchel is lying by her feet. Rummaging inside it, Emma pulls out her netbook and thrusts it towards Regina. "Here," she says, "look on there – my original article is there, time stamped and dated. Look at that and then look at the rewrites I got returned with notes from my editor. **Then** tell me that you think I'm calling you a liar, because you're damn well calling me one!"

Her hand shakes a little as Regina looks at the netbook, then turns her head to one side in silent refusal.

"This isn't working, is it?" Emma says in a small voice, and Regina can't help looking at her now; at the way Emma's head falls to her chest in tacit surrender. The blonde lets the netbook slide down to the floor and clenches her hands together in front of her. "I always wanted to find the story behind the story, but now I have, and now I'm a part of it, there's no way this can work, is there?"

Panic flares in Regina's chest, burning acrid at the base of her throat and her eyes fly open, staring at Emma's distress with alarm. She should have known, really, that they were at odds in such unbearable ways. And what first seemed like a challenge now seems more like insurmountable odds if they're going to continue along their individual paths. Those roads lead away from one another, not towards something that Regina has only just started to imagine might be real, achievable.

It appears that it isn't. That she's been thwarted by circumstances that she can't control, no matter how much she'd like to.

"My editor screwed us over, Regina," Emma says bitterly, head hanging down. She lets out a mirthless bark of laughter and shrugs. "All that matters to him is readership and the story. Anything else – **everything** else is just a means to an end."

She glances up at Regina, eyes glittering with betrayal and anger. "**I'm** just a means to an end. And I guess maybe…maybe I am for you too. And it's just not worth it anymore, is it?"

"You mean **I'm** not worth it anymore," Regina adds, back straightening, shoulders tensing.

"That's not what I said – and dammit, can you actually **listen** to me for once instead of projecting all this shit onto me? I mean, can you do that? For **once**, Regina?"

Emma takes a breath to steady herself, pressing her hands together so hard that the tips of her fingers whiten, her knuckles flushing blood-red with pressure.

"You're not the only person this affects. I don't care what anyone thinks about me – being a journalist and doing the job I do, everyone hates you anyway. But I care what **I** think about me. And, right now, I hate myself for being in this position. I hate myself for letting someone force me into putting my name to something that hurts you, okay? It doesn't matter what that article says, not really. It's just words, Regina. And you and I both know that you'll come out on top anyway. You always do," Emma finishes, and Regina winces at her piquant tone.

"I went into this profession thinking I'd be some sort of truth-seeker," Emma continues, then lets out a mocking huff of air at the thought. "I was so fucking naïve that I never imagined I'd have to sort through all the crap that people discard, all their secrets and lies and all the garbage that makes a story worth reading. It's not…it's not what I wanted. It's not what I **want**."

She reaches up, wiping her hands over her face and then leans back in the chair, defeated. She's already cried about this in her own home, but she feels tears prickling the backs of her eyes now because if there was ever a moment of truth to be discovered and brought into the light, then it's surely this one.

"What **do** you want?"

It's a simple enough question. As Emma looks over at Regina, she can see the anguish on the other woman's face, forging lines around her eyes and mouth and darkening her gaze to almost black in the yellow lamplight of the room. And there are so many answers that spring easily to Emma's lips; things she has no right to ask for or want. Things she knows that Regina can't really give her, no matter how much they both fool themselves that she can.

Maybe that's what they've been doing all along, though, Emma tells herself. And it's taken someone else to make fools of them both and expose them for what they are and what they'll never be.

"I don't know," Emma finally says. And that's as honest as she can be right now. "I know that I **don't** want this. I don't want to worry about every word I write and see it turned into something harmful. I don't want to know you and feel the way I do about you then watch as you sell yourself out to the worst kind of people because you think you can't survive without your mother's help."

She can see how her words hit home in the way that Regina shifts in her chair and fiddles agitatedly with the ring on her finger, twisting it around and around, gazing down at her knees.

"I don't want either of us to be used anymore. There's been enough of that," Emma says softly, sadly.

Regina's on her feet and rushing across to where Emma sits, dropping to her knees and putting her hands over Emma's. She curls her fingers over them and holds on tightly, as though by doing so she can hold onto Emma, too. Because Regina can feel the other woman drifting away, slipping through her grasp like she's trying to capture the entire ocean in her hands. It's just too big, too strong, too unruly for her to keep it all to herself.

She should have known that from the start, when it was easy and physical and was contained in the heated touch of skin on skin and fingers and tongues and lips.

Maybe that's all it ever was.

Regina cranes her neck, peering up into Emma's face. "Do you think **I'm** using you?" she asks, and in the moment she does, Regina knows that, for her, it's not _just_ anything. It's _everything_. Everything that matters, anyway.

"No," Emma sighs. "Not really."

"Not really?" Regina echoes. "Emma, I told you before that if being with me hurts you, hurts your career, then – "

"Please," Emma snorts, and frowns at Regina. "What career? My editor clearly doesn't give a shit about throwing me under a bus so why should I?"

Relenting a little, she sighs and screws up her face in consternation. "I don't even know if I care anymore. I wanted to do something good, something…something…"

"Noble?" Regina suggests, and Emma looks at her, nodding. "So did I," Regina tells her, and there's a glimmer of sympathy in Emma's gaze.

"And then you get to a place where your career turns into a monster that threatens to eat you whole if you don't keep feeding it," Regina says. "But you keep going because without it, you're empty."

She strokes her thumb over the backs of Emma's knuckles and her brow furrows. "Emma, I felt empty before you. And I didn't…I didn't even know it. But I don't want you to be with me unless you feel the same. It's not fair."

Emma shakes her head. "Fair? God, Regina, why do you even want to be with **me**?"

Regina smiles a little and removes one of her hands from Emma's, reaching up to tuck a lock of blonde hair behind Emma's ear. She presses her palm against Emma's cheek, cupping it in her hand.

"You're smart," she says gently. "**Too** smart, in fact," she adds with a wry twist of her lips. "You're much braver than I am, for lots of different reasons. You're irritatingly unapologetic and you rarely curb that tongue of yours."

"Are these good things?" Emma asks, as Regina's hand slides from her face and returns to where her own are still clasped together on her lap.

"Yes," Regina nods, "they're very good. You challenge me – especially when I don't want you to. You make me think about things in a different way. You make me think about **myself** in a different way. But I'd never forgive myself if that made you feel less than who you are. Emma, you're **so** alive and I feel like being with me is slowly killing you, bit by bit."

"It's not," Emma insists, but her voice is weak and unconvincing. "I love being with you, Regina. You're one of the most amazing women I've ever met and you're so much better than people tell you that you are. You could be so much more than…than **this**, you know? And I feel like, since you and I got together, all I've done is hold you back. Don't you see? What we do and who we are? We're just too different."

"No," Regina rises up and grips Emma's hands more firmly. "**No**, Emma. It's **because** you're different that I need you."

Emma puffs out her cheeks and is on the verge of refuting Regina's claim when she feels fingers sliding around her jaw, holding her tight and lifting her head so that she's looking into Regina's eyes. Something in them gives her pause; something in the tears she can see glistening in them makes her want to cry, too. Because she knows that she's falling in love with Regina; she knows that she's falling in love with someone who embodies the antithesis of everything Emma's ever held dear. It's rocked her to her very core and Emma's not sure how to clamber out from underneath the rubble of all that's come crashing down around her.

"Emma," Regina murmurs, leaning forwards and pressing her lips to Emma's, "I want you. I want you **so** much."

And desire falls like night down around them, smothering everything but the flare of lust that Regina's kiss sparks deep in Emma's stomach. Regina kisses her again, and again, and it feels like with each meeting of their mouths, their hunger for one another only grows. Emma draws back and stares at Regina through hazy eyes, wondering if this is how they communicate best – if it's the only way they'll ever _really_ communicate. Want is such a powerful emotion: Emma can recall being consumed by it as a kid, desirous of things that were always beyond her reach.

But she wants Regina. And Regina is within her grasp, in her arms, in her head and heart. Whether it's right or not, Emma does have Regina and,_ oh_, how she wants her.

Sliding her hands beneath Regina's arms, Emma tugs the other woman towards her until Regina is straddling her lap. They're kissing more passionately now, tongues meeting, rising, tangling. Regina swipes the tip of her tongue underneath Emma's upper lip before she bites down on Emma's bottom lip and pulls at it. Emma groans and curves her hands around the swell of Regina's ass, pulling the other woman closer until their bodies are rubbing against one another. It's only when Regina's mouth moves to Emma's neck and her glasses scrape along the blonde's cheek that she leans back.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her voice deep with lust, and she lifts a hand to remove her glasses.

"No," Emma says, shaking her head and looking up at Regina, pupils dark and wide. "Keep them on."

She pushes a hand down between their bodies until she can work her fingers beneath the hem of Regina's skirt, inching them up the inside of the other woman's thigh until she feels the taut line of a stocking and the garter belt it's attached to. Emma lets out a breath as Regina leans forwards and, with her other hand, she grabs a fistful of Regina's hair, pulling her head back and eliciting a sharp gasp. She eyes Regina's throat and spies a thudding pulse point there; it makes her smile.

It makes her vicious. It makes her greedy.

"Do you want this?" she hisses, pushing her fingers higher up until they reach the lacy outline of Regina's panties.

"Yes," Regina says, harried and wanton and squirming a little on Emma's lap. Her fingers are digging into Emma's shoulders so hard that the blonde grits her teeth at their pressure, but she can't stop now. She knows, at the back of her mind, that she'll never stop wanting Regina. It's like a sickness; a disease for which there is no cure. There's only this. Only this to assuage her inherent need for this woman.

"Do you want **me**?" Emma asks, her fingertips moving past Regina's panties and brushing over the welcome dampness of wiry hairs.

"Oh…god…**yes**," Regina moans, swallowing visibly and crying out as Emma pulls harder on her hair. "Emma, yes, please…I need you and I want you and…**please**…" She swirls her hips and tries to push forwards onto Emma's fingers but the blonde laughs and bunches her fist in Regina's hair, jerking the other woman's head back even further.

"Do you **love** me, Regina?"

Emma's voice is thick, choked by the fear of not knowing and the terror of being answered. She brings Regina's head forwards, down so that it's level with her own. Then she thrusts with her fingers and moves them inside Regina without preamble. The other woman is wet – so wet that Emma can't help the shudder of want that runs through her and shifts them both on the chair.

"Well?" Emma urges, as she begins to move slowly in and out of Regina, her thumb finding the woman's clitoris and rubbing around it, pressing down hard intermittently.

Regina makes a clicking sound in her throat and swallows again, fighting for an even breath so she can speak. Her lips move to form words but she's momentarily speechless and all that comes from her mouth is a faint, dry moan.

"Do you belong to me, Regina? When you're sitting in your office taking calls all day, are you thinking about me? Are you thinking about **us**, like this?"

She's moving her hips now, pushing onto Emma's fingers as they dive deep inside her, circling Emma's touch so that her nerve endings are aflame with sensation. It rockets up her body and explodes at the back of her neck, tingling and sparking light and color behind her eyes whenever she closes them. Regina's holding on to Emma for dear life as the blonde tugs at her hair, pinpricks of hurt scattering across Regina's scalp.

"Look at me!" Emma demands, and Regina does, opening her eyes so that she's staring directly into Emma's.

"Tell me, Regina," Emma croaks out. "Tell me, Senator Mills."

Regina moans aloud at the title and Emma can't help smiling even as she's breathing hard, working her fingers in and out of the other woman.

"Yeah, I thought you might like that, Senator," she growls. "But you never answered my question."

"Yes, I – " Regina starts, then bends as Emma thrusts in up to the knuckle, her thumb pressing down uncommonly hard on Regina's clitoris. Letting out a loud cry, Regina's hands move to Emma's neck, curving around it, fingernails tracing the nape and scrabbling among the sensitive, tiny hairs there.

"Tell me and I'll let you come," Emma whispers, craning her neck forwards to whisper in Regina's ear. "You do want to come, don't you, Senator Mills?"

Regina bends again, but Emma tugs her head back up and she can't help but stare into stormy green eyes that seem to look past everything that doesn't matter and strip it all away.

"I do," Regina grinds out. "Please – yes – I do. I want to."

She can feel herself unraveling, right there on Emma Swan's lap. She can feel Emma's fingers in her hair and deep – _so deep_ – inside her. Regina can feel everything this woman is and could be, and returns it tenfold because she wants, wants, _wants_ it so much. So she leans her head forwards, despite Emma's grip on her hair. She puts her mouth against Emma's ear and draws in a ragged, uneven breath as the feeling Emma's fingers evoke inside her ripples through her entire body.

"I'm falling in love with you," Regina whispers, and rises up a little before plunging down onto Emma's fingers in a glorious rush of pleasure that makes her dizzy and alive and a thousand other things all at once. "I know I am and I don't want to stop. Please don't stop me, Emma. Don't stop."

Emma doesn't. Perhaps it's all she needs to know. Perhaps it's the one thing she never needed to know. It frees something inside her that she knows she's been withholding for a long, long time. It's as wonderful as it is terrifying; as necessary as it is superfluous. But right now, in this moment, it feels like the only thing that matters.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	12. Chapter 12 - Excess Demand

Emma arches her back and thrusts up with her hips because she feels like she can't get close enough to Regina – can't get near enough to the fingers and lips and tongue that are doing such _exquisite_ things to her body. She can feel the other woman's touch everywhere, as though Regina is covering every inch of Emma's skin with sensation; it's impossible and incredible and almost too much to bear. It strikes Emma that there's something different about this – the sexual intimacy that they've forged. She's never been much of a one for romanticism and _certainly_ not the sort of doe-eyed behavior that she's always found offputting in others.

But she's aware that she's on the verge of confession, of offering up a thousand declarations that might damn her, in the end. Because all she can hear in her head is Regina's voice, hoarse and desperate, telling her that she's falling in love. With _Emma_. With someone who has always feared those sorts of words because they never, ever lead to any good.

But good and bad are such useless descriptors; Emma knows that. They've always existed in her vocabulary to help her dismiss or cling to concepts that she can't quite understand. They've helped her run from them, too. And she's been running on a lonely path ever since she fled from similar sorts of emotional commitment to the one that Regina has offered – and demanded.

She can feel Regina's hand on her right leg, fingers pressing inside her knee with firm insistence. It feels as though the woman has magic in her touch, spreading tendrils of heat up through Emma's entire body. She squirms as it catches and roars through her veins; she gasps as she feels Regina's mouth on the hottest, wettest part of her, the tip of a tongue flicking and swirling around her clitoris and reducing her to liquid under its touch.

Rising up again, Emma struggles onto her elbows and gazes down the length of her body to see Regina between her legs. She blinks hazily, her vision blurred - whether by the pull of lust or a greater, more fervent emotion, she's unsure. Regina lifts her head and looks up, her gaze meeting Emma's eyes. Her lips are wet and red, hair mussed; Emma can't remember ever seeing anything more beautiful or arousing or just…just so fucking _perfect_.

"Are you alright?" Regina asks, her voice a low hum that makes Emma's heart quicken and pick up pace, pounding in her breast. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Emma licks at her dry lips and croaks out a response. "I…uh…I was thinking…"

"**Thinking**?" Regina says, eyebrows lifting in surprise. She smiles wickedly and shifts slightly between Emma's legs. Emma's teeth catch her bottom lip and she lets out a stifled moan as Regina's fingers stroke a line through her flesh, finger and thumb pinching at her swollen clitoris. Her hips jerk upwards and Regina chuckles gently.

"What are you thinking about **now**, hm?" she teases, bending her head to place a kiss on the inside of Emma's thigh.

"Oh god, I – I was just – " Emma stutters out, as Regina's fingers follow a lazy circle through her wetness before dipping inside her, just once.

"Just…**what**?" Regina enquires, clearly enjoying herself. She bends her head again and nibbles at Emma's inner thigh with her lips, the tip of her tongue reaching out to dampen the skin before she lifts her head and tilts it to one side. "What could you **possibly** be pondering right now, Emma?"

"You – what you said," Emma forces out in a rush, and rolls her hips upwards to where Regina's mouth is still curved in a smile that's bordering on sadistic. A fleeting thought runs through Emma's brain that it suits Regina – at least, the image of her that everyone likes to present – and she can't help the tiny thrill of anticipation that shivers down her spine. Because here she is, at the mercy of the Evil Queen and in all honesty she can't think of any other place she'd rather be.

Regina pushes her fingers inside Emma again, this time a little deeper, this time with a little more force. "I've said a lot of things. Can you be more specific?"

She asks calmly, in a way she's done so many times in press conferences, when politeness has been a weapon in Regina's expansive armory, designed to throw any aggressor off their game. Emma just never expected it to work as an aphrodisiac. Because the more prosaic and genteel that Regina sounds, the more important it seems to force her hand – quite literally.

"Falling in love," Emma blurts, and winces a little at how panicked her voice sounds. "You said you were falling in love with me."

Regina's smile wavers a little and then fades. Her fingers cease their restless movement on Emma's flesh and she nods to herself. Then she looks up at Emma again and her eyes are serious, dark and deep.

"I did," she says gently, and Emma shudders at the tone of Regina's voice. "I meant it, if that's what you're wondering."

"No, I know you did." Emma blinks rapidly and draws in a sharp breath as she feels Regina's sigh flood over her skin, warm and grateful.

"Does it scare you?" Regina asks, and there's a look that flutters through her eyes: hesitant and almost fearful. She moves back a little on the bed, her fingertips sliding from Emma's knee.

Emma pushes herself up into a sitting position, knees coming up in front of her and she tries to pinpoint exactly how she _does_ feel about it. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out and she stares at Regina, quite at a loss for words.

"I see," Regina says abruptly, head dropping. She lets out a little laugh of pitiful surrender and shakes her head. "My mother always said that I was far too open. She told me that being emotional made people uneasy, so I stopped doing it. I should have exercised some restraint. I'm sorry, Emma."

She glances up at the blonde and moves further away from Emma's body. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Emma's up onto her knees before she even realizes she's moving, fingers wrapping around Regina's wrist and pulling the other woman towards her. They're both kneeling on the bed facing one another and Emma can see Regina's chest heaving with emotion that she's trying – unsuccessfully – to hide.

"You should know by now that I don't give a shit what your mother says," Emma forces out through gritted teeth. "And I'm not scared – not in the way **you** think, anyway," she adds, as Regina glances up at her. Emma tightens her grip around Regina's wrist as though, were she to let go, the other woman might flee. It strikes her as faintly amusing that the tables are turned; Emma's pretty sure that some women from her past have seen the exact same look on her face as the one that's darkening Regina's features right now.

"I guess I just wasn't expecting it, that's all," Emma tells Regina. "And I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop thinking about – "

She stops and presses her lips together, pausing for the inevitable thoughts to fly into her head again: thoughts she's been having for some time now and dismissing because flights of fancy never did anyone any good. As a child, they certainly never presented anything to her other than something else to grieve. And she had done just that when the absence of good had opened up a void in her heart that she simply never assumed would be filled.

Except, little by little, it has been. And it's _that_, more than Regina's words and the sentiment behind it, which gives Emma pause.

"I can't stop thinking about us, together," Emma finally tells Regina. "Like, if this actually works out…I mean…I don't even know how that looks, you know?"

She screws up her face and cocks her head onto one side as Regina gazes at her, a little nonplussed. Emma lets out a tiny sigh and shrugs. "I'm saying this all wrong," she mutters.

"I'm not sure **what** you're saying," Regina says, and Emma frowns in consternation because it isn't supposed to be this hard. In stories, the lovers always declare their undying devotion to one another in a swell of violins and things are easy after that. But, she reminds herself, they're not _in_ a story and life doesn't come with an accompanying soundtrack to give them cues about what to say and when to say it. _More's the pity_.

"This **is** real, isn't it?" she says, and Regina looks at her first with sympathy, then with warmth.

"It's real for **me**," she tells Emma. "The most real anything's been for years, in fact." She attempts a smile but it gets stuck on her lips and Emma hears the question that goes unsaid, loud and clear.

"It's real for me, too," she says.

"Do you want to run?" Regina asks, looking down at where Emma's fingers are wrapped around her wrist. "That's what you do, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Emma says softly. "That's what I do. But I don't want to."

"No?" Regina moves closer, lifting her head so that her lips are almost touching Emma's. She hears the sharp intake of breath at her proximity and feels her senses heighten. Her mouth ghosting over Emma's cheek, Regina can feel the heat emanating from the blonde, drawing her in as though it has corporeal form. It winds around her and she bends towards it, kissing along Emma's jaw.

"God…no," Emma whispers, head lolling back on her neck. She hisses as Regina's teeth scrape over her throat.

"Then show me," Regina says, her voice muffled against Emma's neck. They're touching now, bodies flush against the other. Emma can feel the swell of Regina's breasts against her own, the scant brush of a hard nipple over her skin and she swallows. Parting her legs a little, Emma pushes Regina's hand between them, forcing the other woman's fingers inside herself. Regina groans against her neck and sways a little, fingers curling as they move deeper inwards.

"Lie down."

Emma obeys, and thuds back onto the bed as Regina leans over her, one leg proprietorially slung over her own, hand moving between her legs and thrusting harder now. Bending her head, Regina takes one of Emma's nipples into her mouth, sucking, teasing, biting gently and then more firmly. Emma whines and her arm snakes around Regina's back, holding the other woman against her. Regina's teeth clamp down hard again on her nipple and Emma whimpers, pushing her head back into the pillow behind it.

She can feel Regina's wetness on her leg as the other woman grinds down on her thigh; Regina's teeth clamping down on her nipple and tugging at it. Everything is Regina and what this woman does to her – what she _might_ do, should Emma let her, is a flood of feeling and knowing and wanting.

Her hips cant upwards as Regina bears down, screwing her fingers around inside where Emma is sensitive and throbbing and wet…_so_ wet. She closes her eyes and feels the dull ache beginning at the pit of her stomach, rippling out to envelop her body in a thrumming, rhythmic beat that keeps pace with her heart, hammering wildly against her ribcage.

Emma wants to tell Regina how she feels; she wants to share the secrets she's been keeping for so long that to even think of them now, fluttering around her brain like caged birds, makes her throat hurt and her eyes fly open. If she could speak, she would. But all that comes from her mouth is a whimpering moan that makes Regina lift her head and smile down at her.

"Regina, I – " Emma manages to whisper, but then her voice fails and she's left wordless and bereft of all the things she could never disclose. Not before. Not to anyone.

"Emma," Regina murmurs, as she strokes and caresses Emma towards ecstasy. "My beautiful, wonderful girl."

Emma's chest tightens and she turns her head to one side on the pillow as Regina keeps up a continuous stream of compliments: words Emma always longed to hear and never did. Words that she can't quite comprehend or accept now that she _does_ hear them. Regina is whispering in her ear now and Emma finds herself choked, tears prickling behind her eyes because she doesn't deserve this – she never has. All her life she's been rejected and alone and now she's wanted…truly, utterly wanted. All the other women who claimed to love her, all the other women who always wanted something from her that she wasn't prepared to give…now Emma knows how they felt, understands the inherent desire to give and give and never stop because what is returned comes tenfold and it's overwhelming.

"You have no idea what you do to me, what you've done to me," Regina says, her voice a buzz against Emma's cheek. "And you want to know if I **love** you…oh…my Emma, how could I not? How could I not?"

Unsure whether it's the words, the emotion behind them or the glorious, inconceivable sensation of Regina's fingers inside her and the other woman's body rubbing against her own, Emma crumbles. It rises like panic inside her, constricting her chest and making it difficult to breathe. She gulps in air, gasping to try and fill her lungs so that she can let it out and dispel the growing wave that feels like terror, threatening to pull her under. Emma's always been a survivor, railing against the world so that it doesn't break her. But she knows – she _knows_ – that the way she feels about Regina Mills can not only break her, but shatter the life she's built so carefully into tiny little pieces, and herself along with it. All that was true becomes untrue; all the hurt that she endured transmutes into this great emotion that bursts from her as she looks up into Regina's eyes.

Emma rises from the bed, body writhing and twitching beneath Regina's. She clings to the other woman as though holding on is the only thing she'll ever do – or want to. And when she comes, everything that's been pent-up and restrained for years flows like a torrent along with her orgasm. Emma opens her mouth and cries out, shuddering under Regina's touch, her cry one of pure surrender.

When the shaking subsides, Emma can't control the tears. She cries for all the years that this meant nothing; she cries for all the times love made her run away, terrified of how it might desert her before she even had chance to feel it properly. And she cries for the simple fact that being loved and loving in return bleeds warmth and fear into every single part of her, filling her up and making her think that perhaps – at last – she might just deserve this. Might deserve Regina.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Emma stirs and opens her eyes, squinting in the pale light of a single lamp on the bedside table. She sucks in a breath and realizes that she's beneath the covers, safely curled up against Regina's body. The other woman's arms are around her and Emma blinks, waking slowly and enjoying the warmth of skin on skin. Such a tiny word: safe. Such a huge meaning that encompasses a feeling that was always just beyond Emma's reach. Now, it's under her fingertips and wrapped around her and she lies still for a second, relishing it, indulging in it. It's only when she lifts her head from Regina's shoulder that the other woman moves, turning slightly as Emma shifts away beneath the covers.

"You're awake," Regina says simply, and Emma scrubs a fist over her eyes, frowning.

"Yeah," she says slowly. "I must have dozed off or something after…well…**after**."

Regina laughs softly and reaches up, stroking a tendril of hair from Emma's cheek and laying her palm against it for a moment. "You cried yourself to sleep **after**, dear."

"Oh god," Emma mutters. "That's…that's embarrassing. I'm sorry, I got – "

"It's **fine**," Regina says warmly. "I can't say I wasn't worried but I think we've both been under a lot of strain lately and perhaps…perhaps your emotions just got the better of you."

"Yeah," Emma says absently. "Maybe." _Or maybe they just found a way to escape, at last_, she thinks to herself.

She stretches beneath the covers, lifting her arms above her head. As she does so, her stomach rumbles and she grimaces, turning to see Regina viewing her with barely disguised amusement.

"I didn't have dinner," Emma explains sheepishly. "I guess I just forgot."

Regina's lips twitch and she rolls her eyes. "Yes," she hums, "energetic sex will do that to you."

Emma inches forwards under the covers and reaches for Regina, sliding her hand over the other woman's hips until their bodies bump together. "Seriously though," she murmurs, "the kind of sex you and I have could pretty much make me forget my own name, never mind when to eat."

"Flatterer," Regina admonishes playfully, but she darts forwards and kisses Emma on the lips. It's sweet, uncommonly so. And it leaves both women flushing pink at both how casual it is and how intimate. It's like they've been doing this for years. Like they're already far beyond the place they _should_ be at this stage.

"I have my charms," Emma tells her, leaning up onto one elbow and resting her head on her hand.

"Mmm," Regina hums dubiously. "You just keep them so well hidden it's almost as though you don't really have any at all." She squeaks as Emma prods her firmly in the stomach and slaps at the blonde's hand under the heavy coverlet.

"I was going to offer to make you some food," Regina says imperiously, giving a sidelong glance in Emma's direction, "but with manners like that I'm tempted to just turf you out onto the street and let you fend for yourself."

"No, you're not," Emma tells her, a grin swarming across her features. "And even if you were, trust me, it wouldn't be the first time that's happened."

Regina snorts and throws back the covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her robe is lying over the back of a nearby chair and she pads across the carpet towards it, pulling it on and fastening the belt tightly around her waist. She pushes at her hair, running her fingers through it and deciding that it'll simply have to do, then looks at Emma, lounging in the bed, naked body temptingly only half-covered by the sheets.

"Are you trying to convince me that you're some sort of street urchin?" Regina sniffs, tilting her head to one side and watching as Emma grins at her in that highly annoying, aggravating way of hers.

"Yeah," Emma nods vigorously. "Just me and my dog Sandy. It was a hard knock life, Regina. But you know, the sun'll come out tomorrow and all that."

She's straight-faced but her gaze is twinkling just the right amount for Regina to roll her eyes again and shake her head in reprove. "Hilarious, I'm sure," she says grimly. "I'm glad you've recovered enough to make fun of me to my own face."

"Better than doing it behind your back," Emma calls out, as Regina waves a hand of dismissal and walks away, heading for the stairs. "And nobody born after the turn of the century says street urchin!" she shouts, then flops back in the bed, smiling to herself even though she can't for the life of her think why, exactly.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

"Something smells good," Emma comments, hoisting herself onto one of the stools at the huge, marble island in the center of Regina's kitchen and toying with the placemat in front of her. She's settled for wearing her underwear and a tank top, considering that it's more acceptable than turning up in the kitchen naked. Although, she thinks wickedly to herself, she's not entirely sure Regina would object.

"I made you a mushroom and cheese omelet," Regina turns from the stove, plate in hand, then puts it in front of Emma, smiling briefly as the blonde's eyes light up. "And tea," she adds, placing a steaming mug to one side of the plate. By the time she's moved back to the drawer and got a knife and fork, Emma's picking at the omelet with her fingers and Regina smacks them away, brandishing the cutlery in front of Emma's eyes.

Taking them, Emma's already stuffed a huge mouthful between her lips when she realizes that Regina is sitting opposite her nothing more than a cup of tea, which she's nursing between her hands.

"You're not eating?" Emma mumbles through possibly the best damn mushroom and cheese omelet she's ever tasted.

"Unlike you, I eat meals at mealtimes," Regina inclines her head. Emma chuckles and spears more omelet with her fork, because there are times when Regina's a completely pompous pain in the ass without even trying. And those are the times, Emma muses affectionately, when she likes Regina the most.

She munches in silence for a minute then notices how Regina's looking at her. There's a curious expression on the other woman's face, as though she's trying to figure something out but can't quite get there. Emma swallows hard and lets her fork clatter back onto the plate.

"What?" she says. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"Not at all," Regina tells her. "But whenever we eat together – when **you** eat, rather – I get the feeling that it's the first good meal you've had that week."

Emma shrugs and picks up her fork again. "I eat," she says carelessly. "I mean, I can cook for myself and all. It's just that…well, when I was growing up in group homes, there never seemed to be enough food to go around, you know? Anything we had extra, like candy or treats…it was special. I guess it's made me eternally hungry and thankful for whatever I can get."

Regina frowns. Emma's staring pointedly down at her food and not making eye contact and, for the first time, Regina has to wonder at just how difficult Emma's young life might have been. At how the patchy details the other woman has shared barely scratch the surface when it comes to understanding who Emma was – who she's grown into.

"Was it very bad?" Regina asks. Emma glances up at her and Regina tilts her head to one side. "Growing up in the foster system, I mean. Was it very bad?"

"I had a bed to sleep in and a roof over my head," Emma tells her, but there's a wary tone to her voice and she turns the fork on its side, cutting through the omelet so she can lift another mouthful to her lips. "I guess there are better ways to grow up. But when you're someone's meal ticket, they tend to focus on the money they get for looking after you rather than the reason they're supposed to be doing it in the first place."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Regina says gently, and Emma looks at her now, a tiny frown worrying her forehead before she lets out a sigh and shakes her head.

"Well, I'm okay now," she says, and smiles as brightly as she can.

"**Are** you?"

Emma's shoulders rise, then fall as she looks across the island at Regina. It would be easy to lie – she's been doing it for most of her life. Sometimes she almost managed to convince herself that if she pretended things were okay, then they _would_ be. But there seems so very little to gain in lying to Regina; not now, anyway. So as she carefully places her fork back onto the nearly empty plate, she reaches across the island and puts her hand over Regina's, rubbing her thumb over the other woman's knuckles.

"I'm getting there," she says. "So are you, right? Maybe we're just doing it a bit later than other people. I don't really know how all this stuff works and I've avoided it pretty successfully for a long time so these days, I'm not really sure what okay is, you know?"

Regina can't help laughing softly and she nods. "I can't pretend that my childhood wasn't idyllic, though," she admits, somewhat shamefully. "I grew up wanting for nothing."

"Uh huh," Emma narrows her eyes. "Except for a dad who was there and a mom who didn't treat you like her property."

"I think…" Regina begins thoughtfully, then draws a breath and sighs deeply. "I think she honestly considered that she was acting in my best interests. I know that she wanted me to be somebody and make a name for myself. And I just wanted to make her proud."

"Regina, come on," Emma chides gently. "If she's not proud of the **person** you are, then you could be President of the United States and she'd still find some fault with it. I mean, sure, I don't know her like you do but, you know what? She doesn't know you like I do, either."

Regina flushes crimson and pulls her hand from beneath Emma's, grasping at her cup of tea and taking a long swig. "I'm not even sure I want to begin contemplating what that might mean," she mutters under her breath.

Emma snorts with laughter and shakes her head. "What it means is she convinced you that in order to be a good politician you had to disassociate yourself from the very people you're meant to be representing. There's a reason they call you the Evil Queen, you know. And maybe I'm a die-hard liberal but I still believe in the responsibility of power. It's not about how much you can get for yourself; it's about spreading it around so that it's not a dictatorship. It's about giving it to those people who never had it for themselves before."

Looking into the blonde's eyes, Regina is struck by how solemn Emma has become; how grave her expression is and how little power the woman must have had in her life, if any at all. Unbidden, a lump rises in Regina's throat as she suddenly understands all the things her mother did to ensure she would end up as lonely as Cora. And how she, as a politician, had abdicated her duty to people like Emma and all the disenfranchised children who grew up with her into disillusioned adults who felt that the system – any system – had failed them.

"I'm **so** sorry," Regina says thickly, and Emma's brows draw together but she says nothing. "She made me into something – someone – I don't like very much. It's not surprising that nobody else does, either."

"Please," Emma grins and rolls her eyes. "I like you just fine."

"Which doesn't say much for your taste in women, Miss Swan," Regina replies tersely. Then she looks at the clock on the wall and pastes a smile onto her face, sitting up straight in her chair and reaching for Emma's plate. "It's very late," she says smartly, "and we both have jobs to do tomorrow. I suggest we try to get some sleep."

Emma watches as Regina briskly tidies away their cups, the plate and cutlery, sliding the frying pan into the dishwasher and closing the door with a practiced motion. She cocks her head onto one side as Regina turns, wiping her hands on a dishtowel that she folds into precise squares before putting it beside the stove and patting it with her hand to keep it in place.

"About the job thing," Emma ventures, as Regina rounds the corner of the island and stops by her side. "I don't know if this job is right for me. Or, rather, if I'm right for it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm not happy doing it anymore. That I've started to hate going to work at that place, digging up all manner of crap on people and exposing it because it's supposed to be the truth. It's not really the truth, though, is it? I mean, all the things people have written about you, and about me; it's not the truth of us at all."

Regina blinks rapidly and looks worried, her hands moving automatically together, fingers twisting around one another. "What about the story behind the story? Isn't that why you went into journalism in the first place?"

"I guess," Emma shrugs. "But my editor just wants the story – **any** story. He doesn't really care about the details behind it. And he's a complete and utter misogynistic fucktard, to cap it all."

"Emma, that expression, colorful as it is, could be used to describe most of the men I work with," Regina hums acerbically.

"Yeah, well," Emma sighs, "I feel like maybe I'm better than taking orders from someone like that. Maybe we **both** are," she adds, looking meaningfully at Regina.

"Don't give up your job for me," Regina tells her, and it comes out in a rush of concern and onus and guilt that drains the color from her cheeks.

Emma slides off the stool and puts her arms loosely around Regina's waist, drawing the other woman against her. She rests her chin on Regina's shoulder for a second, then turns her head and kisses her neck. Leaning back, Emma smiles sadly, because she's capable of putting back together the parts of her that are shattered. But Regina is still fractured; still trying to paper over the cracks of herself and when she breaks – _and she will_ – Emma's not sure that the woman will be able to withstand it. _She's so much more fragile than people think_, Emma muses. _And so much stronger than she thinks, too._

"Hey," Emma says, peering into Regina's face, "if I give up my job, it'll be for **me**, okay? Nobody else."

"I just don't want to be the reason you stop doing something that you love," Regina says, head dropping to her chest so that she doesn't have to witness the destruction she's caused that clouds Emma's gaze.

They stand for a moment before Regina steps back, Emma's hands slipping from around her waist, and she makes her way towards the kitchen doorway. As she reaches it, she clears her throat and puts a hand against the doorframe as though to steady herself.

"Switch the light off when you come up, won't you, dear?"

"Regina," Emma says, and sees the other woman pause, fingers tightening around the doorframe. "I stopped loving my job when I realized it was empty. You told me the same earlier on tonight, didn't you?"

Now Regina turns her head and fixes Emma with wide, luminous eyes. "I love what I do," she says quietly. "I just don't love the person I have to become in order to do it. And I'm not sure how I'm going to reconcile the two."

"Regina Mills," Emma says firmly, striding across the kitchen floor and grabbing Regina's upper arms, turning the other woman to face her. "You have **no** idea what you're capable of, do you? Your mother abandoning you was designed to break you, but it won't, because without her you can do **whatever **you like. **Be** whoever you like. And do it for the right reasons, this time."

Regina's eyes fill with tears and she blinks them away rapidly, lips twisting as she gives Emma a watery smile and shakes her head.

"You really are the most impossible, idealistic – " she begins, but Emma cuts her off with a fierce kiss that burns hot on her lips.

When they part, Emma rests her forehead against Regina's and lets out a shaky breath. "Yeah," she says, "I'm all of those names you call me in your head. But you know what? I'm also someone who loves you. Not just the politician. Not just the person they all think you are. Not even just the most maddening woman on the whole fucking planet. I love you. **You**. So try to remember that when you're thinking up new ways to curse me, okay?"

Regina's face is a picture of stunned silence and Emma can't help the chuckle that rises in her chest, bubbling up her throat until it bursts over her lips. She shakes her head and saunters past the other woman into the darkened hallway beyond the kitchen.

"I'm going to bed," she announces. "So why don't **you** switch off the light when you come up, your Majesty. And don't be long."

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	13. Chapter 13 - Clear And Present Danger

"I gotta say," Emma announces as she stalks into her apartment, kicking the door shut behind her and removing her satchel and jacket then flinging both towards a chair where they only half land on it, "in the pantheon of disgusting experiences that have tainted my life – and let me tell you, there have been more than I can **possibly** keep count of – that was really fucking vile."

She strides across the floor under Regina's bemused, watchful gaze from the couch then disappears into her bedroom, muttering obscenities that bring a grimace to Regina's face. It had seemed like a good idea to hide away in Emma's apartment while the journalist was on assignment, but Regina's forgotten that Emma generally enters a room like a whirlwind, stirring up the very ether around her into a melee of emotion. And, considering where she's been all afternoon, Regina chastises herself for not expecting this to be the end result.

Sighing, Regina puts aside the paperwork she was perusing – organized into two neat piles on the coffee table in front of her – and dutifully follows Emma into the bedroom. By the time she enters, Emma is already tugging her clothes off, hopping around with her jeans halfway down her legs and her shirt unbuttoned and hanging off one arm.

"I feel like I need a shower after that," Emma snarls, shaking her head. She kicks off her jeans and they land in a crumpled heap by the bed, then she tears off her shirt and throws it down on top of them. "No," she holds up a finger, "actually, I feel like I need **five** showers. And then another five. And maybe an hour in a decontamination chamber."

Turning around in a circle, she dramatically flops down on the bed in nothing but her underwear, closing her eyes and putting an arm over her face, groaning loudly. She breathes emphatically, chest rising and falling as though she's narrowly escaped some sort of torture. Well, Emma reasons to herself, she actually kind of _has_.

Regina leans against the doorway for a minute, staring at Emma with a mixture of alarm and amusement. Then she reaches up, pulling off her glasses and tapping them against her chin before folding them, crossing her arms over her chest. Yes, she tells herself, she should have expected this – and much more. She narrows her gaze and runs it up and down Emma's body. _No_, she thinks, with grim humor. _No sign of any cuts or bruises_. So perhaps it wasn't completely the debacle she'd anticipated.

"I take it your interview with Mr. Gold went badly, then?" she enquires gently.

Emma grunts, then takes her arm from over her eyes and lets out a deep, grating sigh. "That man," she states bluntly, "is a weeping pustule on the armpit of politics."

"I'm not sure that's a viable lead-in for your story, but it's certainly evocative," Regina intones dryly.

Emma glares at her before sitting up on the bed, scooting up its length so she can lean against the plump pillows at its head. "He's a horrid person," she tells Regina. "And the entire time, **she** was hanging over his shoulder like Death at the Feast."

"Ah," Regina nods, moving across the room to perch on the edge of the bed. "So you met my mother."

"Jesus, Regina," Emma says, not without sympathy, "I mean…what the **fuck**? Your mom…she's a – a piece of work, you know?"

Regina smiles mirthlessly and fiddles with her glasses, looking down at her lap. "Indeed I do. My mother's a force to be reckoned with, that's for sure. Which is why Gold had her there, I assume. And I'm sure that she wanted to be present to meet **you**, of course."

"There are other ways of meeting me," Emma protests, lifting her hands in the air then letting them drop back onto her legs with a slap against her bare thighs. "Ways that don't include looking at me like I'm the person who defiled her daughter and led her astray."

Now Regina can't help laughing at the mere suggestion and also the disconsolate expression adorning Emma's features. She reaches across the bed and pats Emma's leg gently. "If it's any comfort, I do rather enjoy being defiled by you," she says.

Emma glowers at her, but it lacks real malice and she sighs again, bumping her head back against the wooden headboard. It was another of her editor's bright ideas, sending her to interview Rupert Gold at the Mills family home. When he'd given her the assignment, he'd made it clear that she either took it, or she took home a pink slip. In retrospect, Emma can't help thinking she'd have been much better off opting for the latter, because the way she feels now is a way she swore she never would again: like she doesn't matter. She had enough of that growing up.

"You know," she finally says, turning her head to look at Regina, "I'm not easily intimidated, but your mom is a scary lady."

"Mm-hm," Regina agrees, nodding her head and moving closer to Emma on the bed. "She does have rather a way about her."

"It's how you used to be – before we started – you know – before **this**," Emma says, frowning. "All the time I was there, I could see her fingermarks all over your life."

"She's good at what she does," Regina says, with a little shrug. "She'll be good at getting Gold to where he needs to be, too."

"Ugh." Emma's face contorts as she recalls how they'd looked at her, how _he'd_ looked at her – looked all over her, more to the point – and how he'd talked _at_ her, like she was little more than a child. "Seriously, Regina, if you don't kick his ass in the elections I'm going to take to the streets and protest."

Regina chuckles to herself. "Now that I'd like to see," she murmurs. Then, as Emma turns to her and she spies real distress on the blonde's face, her smile fades. "I take it he's confident – and my mother, too, yes?"

"Oh yeah," Emma nods gravely. "They're throwing fancy fundraisers and appealing to the conservative masses of Maine to support them. Gold's standing on a platform of traditional family values, whatever they are. I mean, does he even live in this century? He seems to have forgotten that before he got himself a young girl that he keeps literally locked up in that mansion of his, his wife ran off and left him. So much for his ideas of traditional family values." She holds her fingers up in quotation marks, features contorted in distaste.

"Oh yes," Regina nods, eyes narrowed, "that's right. Milah. She'd gone long before I ever knew him. Nobody ever did find out what happened to her and I was always too afraid to ask."

"He probably buried her in his back yard," Emma grouses, "along with the bodies of all his other victims. He's so menacing, talking about how families need to be founded on what America holds dear and how the Republican party embodies that way of thinking."

"Well, it used to when he first entered the political life," Regina muses, "but times change and the party changes with them."

"Right," Emma snorts dismissively. "except your party is still **way** behind the curve when it comes to things that really matter and that affect people who aren't, you know, millionaires."

Regina takes a breath and holds it, counting silently in her head. She knows it won't do any good to enter into a debate with Emma, not when she's so agitated after her interview with Gold. Besides, they'd made something of a pact to agree to disagree when it came to politics. But, as with most pacts, its strength was tested on a daily basis and, often, they found themselves in the midst of an argument without even knowing precisely how they got there.

"I think you'll find Rupert Gold aspires towards the right-wing branch of Republicanism," Regina says softly, and Emma's eyebrows rise as she nods firmly in agreement. "And I'm not so sure that's as popular as it once was."

"Right-wing?" Emma turns to her, incredulity plastered across her features. "The man literally sat there and explained to me why gay marriage is an abomination, why women shouldn't be allowed to have control over their own bodies and why rape isn't the crime it used to be because women are far too permissive with their sexuality. I mean…come **on**, Regina. Who the **fuck** is going to vote for **him**?"

"Unfortunately," Regina sighs, "people my mother knows who will put their faith in things staying the same rather than having to adapt to change. I mean, it worked for me all those years, didn't it?"

She looks troubled, staring down at her glasses again and fiddling with them as she frowns and shakes her head. Because the truth being brought to light in such a way is difficult to bear. The fact of the matter is that her mother made promises to people on her behalf. And Regina knowingly let her because success at any price – a success to make her mother proud and make her feel useful and even loved by Cora – was better than no success at all.

"Here's the thing, though," Emma suddenly says, breaking Regina's reverie. "I could barely stand an hour with those people. How the hell did you stand **years** of them?"

She peers into Regina's face as the other woman looks back at her, and Emma can see the pain that flits through dark eyes before Regina swallows it down and forces a smile onto her lips.

"I didn't know any differently," she explains simply. "And by the time I did, it was too late to do anything about it. I was groomed, I suppose, from an early age. By Gold and my mother. They made me believe that I was changing politics for the better when, really, I was changing myself for them. They got what they wanted, in the end. My mother's business has never been more profitable and Rupert Gold has made a fortune out of banking and loans."

"Right," Emma grunts again, nostrils flaring. "He kept going on about how many people he's helped and how many American companies he's kept afloat in the face of what he called – get this – the foreign threat."

"He's kept American companies afloat alright," Regina says tersely. "But with him, everything comes at a price. He profits whether the company sinks or swims. If they can't pay back his loans, he simply puts them into receivership and swoops in to take them over himself. He's a corrupt, wicked man and he does all of this by the book of business law. That's why nobody has ever opposed him and why nobody's ever managed to catch him out."

"The rich get richer and the poor get poorer," Emma mutters. She can feel that age-old resentful anger rising in her chest again, just like it had as Gold, with a distinctly smug expression on his face, outlined his plans to support American businesses, to make American trade strong and to dispel foreign imports that, as he put it, diluted the very bedrock of American life. Emma had found it difficult not to spring across the room and punch him in the face; by the time she'd left the Mills house, she'd been seething.

Regina's hand creeps into her own, twining their fingers together and Emma squeezes it tightly. It's easy to forget, she thinks, that what she experienced today was only a _fraction_ of what Regina must have endured day in, day out. There's a sickening feeling in her stomach as she wonders what and who Regina might have become without the influence of her mother and Rupert Gold. Because Emma knows that, for all her mistakes and for all the bad that she's done on behalf of her party and the idiots who run it, Regina's not a bad person.

But Emma feels guilty now, as she thinks that maybe _she's_ the lucky one after all. That maybe not knowing her parents at all and being raised in foster care might just be preferable to the way that Regina was brought up. She might have been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but all Emma saw today was the distinct lack of anything approaching parental warmth. All she saw was an environment that must have crushed a young Regina and then built her in Cora and Gold's own image, designed to grasp power and wield it without remorse.

She shivers, and Regina leans forwards, peering into her face. Emma smiles, despite the encroaching cold in her chest, and shakes her head, pulling the blanket from beneath her off the bed and draping it over her bare legs.

"I don't suppose…" Regina begins, then stops, biting at her lips. "I don't suppose my mother asked about me, did she?"

There's a pained, hopeful tone to her voice that Emma can't help but feel resonate deep within her own gut. It's the same tone she herself used when families would come to visit the foster homes, looking for children to adopt and take away. They would stand outside and watch as the lucky child was bundled into a car and Emma would always feel her hopes dashed to smithereens, trying hard to control the tears of frustration that sprang to her eyes. _Next time_, the group home leader would tell her. _Maybe next time, Emma_.

Once she reached her teens, however, there never was a next time.

"She pretended at first like she didn't know who I was," Emma tells Regina grimly. "Asked me if there was a Mr. Swan at home as she pushed homemade cakes on me."

Regina huffs out a brittle laugh and nods. "Yes, she's very proud of her old family recipe."

"I didn't eat any," Emma says harshly. "From the look on her face, I thought she might be trying to poison me."

"Emma!" Regina gasps, shaking her head.

"I told her that no, there was no Mr. Swan at home but that I was in a relationship with a talented, intelligent and beautiful woman and it was going very well, thank you."

"Oh god," Regina sighs. "I'm sure she **loved** that."

"Honestly, I thought she was going to have a heart attack right there and then," Emma says, a hint of mischievous pleasure in her voice. "And that's when Gold decided to launch into his rhetoric on family values and the sanctity of marriage. Straight marriage, of course," she adds, with a little snarl.

She puffs out her cheeks, recalling how Cora had never taken her eyes off her throughout the entire interview; how the woman had inspected her closely with a shrewd, judgmental gaze designed to make her uncomfortable. And it had. But Emma, ever the professional, had chosen to ignore it until she got into her car to make the journey home. Then, she'd turned her music up as loud as it would go and literally screamed her way back down the freeway.

"You didn't need to say that – about me, I mean," Regina says, turning her head and dropping a kiss onto Emma's naked shoulder.

"I know," Emma shrugs, squeezing Regina's hand again under the blanket covering her legs. "But she was so fucking cold, Regina. So polite and distant and dismissive. It made me mad to think that she could ever abandon you the way she has in favor of that…that creep Gold. And, trust me, I didn't say half as much as I wanted to."

"Mmm," Regina leans her head onto Emma's shoulder and smiles, despite the grief that swells in her chest when she thinks about her mother and what she's lost – what they _both_ have. "My knight in shining armor."

"Not so much," Emma says thinly. "I asked her why she's now backing Gold instead of you and she gave me this humorless smile and told me that she only backs winners. I swear, I almost got up and left right there and then."

"She's right, though," Regina tells her, and lifts her head as Emma turns to look at her, astonishment widening her green gaze. "It's why she married my father. He had good business connections and a reputation that was positive enough for her to spread her wings, so to speak. She always used to tell me that a lady's trajectory should move upwards, and hers certainly did, thanks to him."

"That's horrid," Emma says bluntly, her voice hard-edged. "What the hell made her so ambitious – greedy enough that she'd basically sell her own daughter out to get what she wants?"

Regina smiles because, while Emma's sharp mind can seek out the intricacies of political life, she's a little naïve when it comes to the machinations of a family like her own. _It's one of the reasons I love her_, Regina thinks, with a rush of affection. _She's untouched by all of this; she's innocent_. She remembers being a teenager and saying the same thing about herself when Rupert Gold had been teaching her how to rip the heart out of a political argument and crush the opposition. He'd said that nothing was innocent and, at the time, Regina had believed him. But now, as she gazes into Emma's eyes, Regina knows that true innocence exists, and that it's not stupid or ignorant as Gold would have had her believe.

It's pure. It's bright and it's wonderful. It's who Emma is, at heart.

"My mother never had power when she was younger, from what I can tell," Regina explains. "She came from a very poor background and is a self-made woman. In the greater scheme of things, she's someone to be admired."

Emma makes a noise of disgust, head jerking back on her neck. But Regina merely smiles and puts her palm against Emma's cheek, drawing strength from the warmth she finds there.

"Power makes her feel safe," she continues. "It makes her feel as though nobody can hurt her again and I can understand that, after a fashion. Once my father died, my mother only had power to sustain her. Everything else she'd ever cared about was gone."

"Regina, she had **you**!" Emma says, horrified by Regina's admission. "She had you and she – she **abused** you! Treated you like a thing instead of a daughter. You know that, right?"

Regina nods sadly and strokes her thumb along Emma's cheekbone. "I do," she assents. "But we all grieve in our own way and maybe…maybe that's how my mother chose to do it. I don't really know. And I'm thankful to her for making me choose politics as a career. I do love it and I'm – I'm good at it." She nods proudly and her cheeks flush with satisfaction, but then her head dips a little and she lets out a sigh.

"But I can't say it doesn't hurt that she won't take my calls or even pretend we're still connected. It kills me inside because I always placed my self-esteem in her hands and without her approval…"

She trails off and swallows visibly, her hand dropping from Emma's cheek to rest in her lap. A muscle ticks in her cheek as she wonders if this is what she deserves, somehow. If her privileged life requires some sort of atonement and if this is it. Regina's been lonely for most of her life and now that she's not – now that she has _actual_ love and _actual_ good filling her up and making her whole in ways she never even suspected could exist for someone like her – she can't help weighing up the odds and asking if this is the price she must pay, just like Gold intimated all those years ago.

"I told you before," Emma's voice enters Regina's thoughts and she glances up at the blonde, who's looking at her intently with solemn eyes, "you don't need her approval."

"That's perhaps just as well because I don't **have** it," Regina laughs bitterly, blinking back the inevitable tears that prickle the backs of her eyes whenever she thinks about her mother. "And everyone needs the approval of their mother, Emma, whatever they say."

"**I** don't. And even if I wanted it, **my** mother gave me up, remember? I wasn't wanted. So why would I need the approval of someone who didn't think enough of me to not give me away? That's bullshit.

Emma's voice is rough and her mouth twists as she spits out words with a strength scraped together over years of asking the same question without ever receiving a satisfactory answer – or any answer at all. Her jaw hardens as she stares resolutely at Regina and shakes her head.

"You don't owe her anything, Regina. **She** owes **you**. And she's counting on you being scared of her and Rupert Gold so that you'll back out of this race."

"With good reason," Regina sighs. "I **am** scared of her. She's made me who I am."

"Yeah, well," Emma persists, "people are gonna tell you who you are your whole life. You've just got to punch back and say "No, this is who I am". You want people to look at you differently? Make them."

Regina can't resist laughing a little at the vehemence and grit of the other woman. Emma's tough; she knows that. But she never assumed that Emma would want to share that toughness, or even give it away. Not to someone like her.

"I'm afraid I don't have much experience with punching," she murmurs, and Emma gives her a sidelong glance that turns into the faintest of smiles.

"Regina, you seem to forget that I've seen you take on half those dinosaurs in the Senate and punch them almost to extinction," Emma says, her grin widening as she sees Regina's mouth curve in amusement. "Besides," she adds, "I'm plenty experienced in punching. I'll give you a few tips."

"Now you're making me sound like a prizefighter," Regina hums. "And since when were you so adamant that I should win this election?"

"Since I met your mother and that beast she's backing," Emma grumbles. "You might not have my vote, Regina, but you've got my heart and that's something I think Gold and your mother lost a long time ago."

"They're politicians," Regina reminds her gravely. "And even though my mother's never held office, she's one of the best politicians I've ever seen. There's no room for heart in politics. In fact, that's the one thing that Gold always told me I had too much of, and that if I wanted to be successful then I'd simply have to cut it out and discard it, figuratively speaking."

Emma grimaces, nose wrinkling in distaste. "That's disgusting," she mutters.

"Maybe so, but it's how people win. You're a political correspondent. You know this."

"Actually," Emma shrugs, "I don't. What I **do** know is that voters like authenticity. And if they think someone's real – a real person instead of a power-hungry robot, then they'll vote for them. It's how it works. Whether it's the truth or not, that's what voters like."

"You're forgetting that people don't actually like me very much," Regina mutters, and turns to Emma in surprise when the blonde lets out a delighted laugh.

"That might be true," she nods, under Regina's increasingly offended eyes, "right now. But you're the one who keeps telling me you've changed. So, instead of showing just me, show everyone else, too. Because you know what? Whether people like you or not, I'm willing to bet money on the fact that they like Rupert Gold even less."

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	14. Chapter 14 - De Facto Segregation

The telephone is shrill, biting into Regina's sleep with a vicious sound. Her eyes fly open and whatever dreams she might have been indulging in are swiftly shattered and forgotten as she turns to her bedside table, reaching out instinctively and grabbing her cellphone before she's even properly awake. Sighing, she presses it to her ear and clears her throat.

"This is Regina Mills," she barks.

"_Hey, s'me."_

"Emma?" Regina sits up in bed, pushing at her hair with her free hand and reaching out to switch the bedside lamp on. As warm, yellow light floods the room and makes her squint a little, she removes the cellphone from her ear for a second and looks at the time. It's late. Well, she corrects herself, actually it's early. _Hellishly_ early.

"Emma, what is it? What's wrong?" Regina can hear how panicked her own voice is and she blinks rapidly, trying to remember to breathe. Calls that come at this hour are never good; she knows that from bitter experience.

"_I just…jus' wanted to talk to you."_

Regina frowns at the sound of Emma's drawling voice and leans back against her pillow. "At two in the morning? Couldn't it wait?"

"_I quit."_

"What?"

"_Yeah…I quit. I can't do it anymore. I give up."_

Emma laughs and it's high-pitched and horribly fake and descends into a little moan that of submission that makes Regina's heart pick up pace and she swallows.

"You…give up on **what**, exactly?"

"_The whole damn thing."_

"Emma – you're not making any sense," Regina says in a low voice. "Have you been drinking?"

"_Not enough…not nearly enough."_

Emma's voice cracks and she sighs in a way that makes Regina wince because she knows pain when she hears it. But Emma sounds defeated by it; broken, even. Regina pulls the bedcovers off her legs and stands up, casting a glance across her bedroom for the clothes she's left neatly folded on a chair.

"Are you at home?" she asks, making her way across the carpet.

"_Where the hell else am I going to be?"_

Regina's mouth tightens at Emma's tone of antagonism. But she grabs for her sweatpants anyway and throws them onto the bed.

"I'm coming over," is all she says, then hangs up and starts rifling through one of her drawers for some underwear.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Emma's apartment is bathed in red light that comes, Regina soon discovers, from a lamp in the corner of the room that has a crimson cloth – it looks like a shirt – thrown over it. She closes the door behind her with a gentle click and leans against it, surveying the scene before her eyes with a grim expression.

Not the neatest of people, Emma's apartment is usually fairly tidy. Far below Regina's exacting standards, of course, but then Emma Swan didn't grow up with Cora Mills and her particular brand of parenting. Regina's mother demanded a tidy room and a tidy mind. Only now, as Regina looks around Emma's living room, she can't help wishing she'd been more rebellious as a teenager because, if she and her mother were always destined to end up where they are now – estranged and at odds with one another – then she might just as well have misbehaved instead of being obedient and submissive.

The mere thought of it twists her mouth and she shakes her head, narrowing her gaze and scanning the room for any sign of Emma. No use fretting over what's gone and in the past, she tells herself.

Except she _does_ do that. Every day. All the time.

Regina takes a few steps further into the apartment and tries not to worry. But the place is a mess. The coffee table in front of the sofa is a jumble of newspapers, some of them in stacks, most of them scattered across its surface. The sink in the kitchen, Regina notes, is full of dirty pots and dishes and the floor is littered with shoes, boots, all manner of clothing. It looks like there's been a tornado and the only things left form the sad detritus of Emma's life. Like someone used to live here, but has gone now.

She's halfway across the room when her foot nudges up against something and Regina looks down to see Emma's leather jacket on the floor behind the couch. It's silly, but the sight of it and its presence in Emma's apartment makes Regina feel somewhat relieved. _She never leaves home without wearing that dreadful thing_, she thinks, bending down to pick it up. But it offers some respite, at least, from the encroaching concern at Emma's – seemingly – empty apartment and the call she'd made to Regina not thirty minutes ago.

"Hey," a voice comes from the doorway to the bedroom. Emma leans against it, her hair mussed and tangled and her shirt half-unbuttoned, hanging loosely over her jeans. She's barefoot and has a half-full bottle of what looks like whiskey clutched in her hand.

_She looks terrible_, Regina thinks.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," Emma says, and lurches forwards into the living room.

Regina puts Emma's leather jacket over the back of the couch and folds her arms as Emma approaches unsteadily.

"It sounded like you needed me," she tells the blonde.

Emma's eyebrows rise and she lifts the bottle to her lips, upending it and taking a long swig. When she swallows, she lets out a hissing sigh and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, grimacing at the sharp taste of the alcohol.

"Needed you, huh?" she says, her voice flat. "Whatsamatter, Regina? Savior complex kicking in, is it? Or have you got an itch that needs scratchin' instead?"

"Emma, please," Regina mutters, sliding her purse from her shoulder and dropping it gently onto the couch.

"Emma, **please**!" the blonde mocks her, face lined and hard in a way that makes Regina's stomach dip and roil unpleasantly. "Please, **what**?" Emma's chin juts forwards and she takes another couple of faltering steps towards Regina. "Am I offending your delicate sensibilities? I mean, it's not like **you** got wasted and called **me** in the middle of the fucking night, is it?"

She holds a finger in the air and screws her face up as though deep in thought, then looks pointedly at Regina and shrugs. "Oh wait," she says, "that's **exactly** what you did. That's what started this whole thing, isn't it? Because you couldn't keep all your shit to yourself."

Regina folds her arms over her chest, lips pursing. "What a delightful way of phrasing it." She's trying really hard not to be angry with Emma, but the air thickens between them as the blonde glares at her, antagonism coloring her features. Then, as she looks Regina up and down, Emma bursts into laughter and points at the other woman's outfit.

"What the hell are you wearing?" she blurts. "You look like a soccer mom on her way to the gym."

"I grabbed the first thing I could because someone I care about was calling me at two in the morning and literally crying down the line," Regina says shortly. "But if all you're going to do is be rude and make fun of me, then perhaps I should leave."

She makes to grab her purse when there's a hand on her arm and Emma peers into her face, the picture of contrition. She blinks a couple of times and then shakes her head.

"No – Regina – I'm - I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please don't go." Emma's voice breaks and when Regina looks at her, she proffers a tiny smile and steps back, holding out the bottle of whiskey.

"Have a drink with me," Emma says, holding out the bottle, alcohol sloshing against its sides. "I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" Regina asks. "And what did you mean when you said that you quit?"

"My job," Emma says, flinging her arms wide and letting out a brittle laugh. "I quit my job. I quit that bastard editor. I quit working for people who think my integrity – " she stumbles over the word and licks her lips, frowning and shaking her head at how uncooperative her mouth is being, " – is non-existent because I'm with you. I quit having those dicks laugh at me because I can't quit **you**, Regina. The shit they say to me – because I'm a woman and because they think this is all some huge fucking joke and…"

Her head drops onto her chest for a moment, then she draws in a long breath and shrugs, hugging the bottle of whiskey against her. "They're probably jealous," she mumbles to herself, looking up at Regina with a dark glow in her eyes. "You're really fucking hot. Even if you do have a stick up your ass most of the time."

She lets out a hungry laugh and moves forwards, but Regina stops her, pressing a hand to Emma's shoulder. "You gave up your job?" she asks, incredulous. "Emma, what on earth possessed you to do that?"

"**You** possessed me," Emma slurs. "You and your promises about loving me and wanting to be with me."

"I do love you and I do want to be with you," Regina says, frowning. "But none of that is reliant on you giving up your job. I told you that. I specifically said that's not what I wanted."

"Yeah, that's what you said. But something had to give, right? **Someone** had to give. I guess it should be me. Your career is more important than mine. I'm just the fuckup who writes shit about people and calls it journalism."

"I've never said that!" Regina darts back, and she finds that she's angry at the accusation, but guilty over it, too. Because when all is said and done, her career is the most important thing in her life and has been for many years.

Or _was_, at least. But lately Regina's been conflicted about the difference between habit and desire. She's still trying to figure out the litany of things she must do and separate them from the things she wants. The people she wants. Because even in her drunken state, swaying in front of her and hurling blame at Regina like fireballs with the intent to burn and cauterize the hurt out of her, Emma is still the woman Regina wants. The woman she knows she loves.

"You don't **have** to say it," Emma sighs, turning around on the spot until she sags, leaning against the back of the couch. She lifts the bottle to her mouth and takes another too-large gulp of whiskey, squeezing her eyes shut as she swallows. "You're older than me…I don't have a fucking clue where I want to be in life and you're already there."

"I'm not sure that's entirely true," Regina murmurs, then looks at Emma curiously, fearfully. "So you're running again. This time from a job that I know you enjoy."

Emma snorts dismissively and puffs out her cheeks. "I enjoy writing. I always have. But not like this. It disgusts me, what I have to do and say."

She frowns and wipes her hand over her face before rising and staggering around the couch, dropping heavily onto it. Emma reaches out, swiping at the stack of newspapers on the coffee table, making a disgruntled noise. "Look at them," she snarls. "All the stuff I've written about you, about everyone. It's all bullshit. It's **bullshit**, Regina!"

Shoving at the newspapers, Emma gets to her feet and kicks at them instead, almost overbalancing and sending sheets of paper flying into the air. Regina flinches as Emma weaves around the couch and towards her again, half-fearing that the blonde might actually strike her, too. But Emma thrusts the bottle out in front of her and nods decisively.

"The least you can do is have a drink with me," she demands. "We should be celebrating an end to all that shit."

"No, we shouldn't." Regina snatches the bottle from Emma and pushes past her, storming into the kitchen and upending the bottle over the sink. Whiskey splashes over the dirty dishes before running down the sinkhole as Emma lets out a cry of horror. Once it's empty, Regina slams the bottle down onto the kitchen counter and turns to see Emma rushing at her.

"What are you doing?" Emma screams. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She's on Regina before the other woman can move, pressing heavily on top of her, trapping her against the kitchen counter. Emma is sluggish, her lean body feeling unusually weighty and Regina reels back from the stink of alcohol coming from her, sour and heady.

"You've had enough," she snaps, writhing as Emma's hands rise to grip her upper arms, fingers clutching and painfully digging into her flesh underneath her sweater, keeping her in place.

"Oh, **have** I?" Emma hisses, squinting at Regina.

"Let me go," Regina demands. "I didn't come here for this."

"I bet you didn't," Emma leans in, pressing her body down the length of Regina's. A lazy smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and her voice drops to a deeper timbre as she cocks her head onto one side and laughs mirthlessly. "But I probably know what you **did **come for – it's what you **always** come to me for, isn't it, Regina?"

She shoves her bare foot in between Regina's legs, kicking them apart and then thrusts a knee between Regina's. "Let's be honest, it's all you really want from me anyway. It's all anybody ever wants."

There's a thickness to her voice that makes Regina recoil inwardly, and she struggles against Emma's grasp and the thigh that's pushing between her legs. A wave of nausea hits her as dry lips scrape over her neck and she shoves at Emma with her hips in an effort to make the blonde move back.

"Stop it," Regina says harshly. "Stop it, Emma. Let go of me. This isn't going to make anything better."

"I don't want to let go," Emma mumbles, her voice indistinct, mouth pressed against Regina's neck. "And it'll make me feel better. Come on, Regina, this is what you like isn't it? This is why you're here."

"Emma – **no**," Regina says, pushing at her. She can feel a tiny chill of panic coil around her gut: a cold snake of fear and worry. Emma is strong, but the alcohol is making her aggressively so. Regina protests again but this time, Emma silences her with a kiss that's hard and uncompromising. When she tries to force her tongue over lips that are pressed into a hard line, Emma grunts and takes one of her hands off Regina's arm, curling her fingers instead around the other woman's neck to pull her even closer.

"No," Regina turns her head, trying to avoid Emma's lips. "Stop…**stop**, Emma."

She can tell that her entreaties are falling on deaf ears as Emma's body presses more insistently against her own; she can hear Emma's breath: ragged and harsh against her ear. The smell of whiskey floods over her and Regina's throat tightens, stomach curdling. Emma's hand works its way to the waistband of her pants, fingers clawing to move past it and she mumbles something into Regina's ear that's barely intelligible as the two women grapple with one another.

Regina manages to free one of her arms and places it across Emma's chest, pushing hard. "I said, **stop** this!" she cries, finally gaining enough strength to send Emma staggering backwards across the kitchen where she crashes into the huge refrigerator against the wall. There's a look on her face that's belligerent and atavistic as she lifts her head and stares hungrily at Regina, and then…then she sees the other woman. Regina's sweater is off one shoulder, her sweatpants bunched awkwardly at her waist and she's panting, arms wrapped around her torso.

Emma's face slowly crumples into an expression of horror and she slumps against the refrigerator, hands moving up into her hair as she can barely stand to look at Regina, but can't look away.

"Oh god," she mutters, her voice hoarse. "I'm sorry – I'm sorry…Regina, I'm **so** sorry."

Regina's trying to return her breathing to a manageable pace, but her heart is racing and she feels like she's being assaulted by a hundred different emotions all at once. She's upset, yes, but she's angry and frustrated and guilty and pained – all rolling together and her chest contracts under the sheer force of it, so much so that she gulps in air and shakes her head, bending at the waist as her arms tighten around her torso.

"I'm sorry," Emma says again, but her voice breaks over the words and she slides down the refrigerator onto the floor, head buried in her hands as she starts to weep. Her shoulders judder up and down and she curls into a tiny ball as Regina stares down at her, appalled. Emma continues to apologize but her words are muffled and it's some time before Regina moves, pulling at her sweater and straightening her clothes. She takes a couple of steps forwards on wobbly legs and stands in the middle of the kitchen, gazing down at Emma.

"Get up," she says.

Emma doesn't move, but continues muttering to herself until Regina walks the rest of the way across the kitchen and stands over her.

"Get up, Emma," she demands, lifting her chin and staring down at the blonde. Another minute, and then Regina is kicking at Emma's ankle – so hard that the blonde squeaks and looks up at her in surprise.

"Get off the floor," Regina says in a tone that brooks no dissent. "Get up and stop sniveling. You've had far too much to drink."

"I'm **sorry**!" Emma whines, lifting her head and looking up at Regina. Her cheeks are tear-streaked and her eyes are red; she looks like she doesn't know what's happening or what she's done. All she knows is that Regina's standing over her, furiously dark like a stormy night. "Please, I'm sorry."

Regina sighs and bends a little, reaching out her hand towards Emma. "Get up," she says again, but her voice is much softer now and, as Emma slides her fingers into Regina's, she tugs until Emma is unsteadily on her feet.

"Regina, I'm sorry – about everything," Emma tries to apologize but her words are slurred and she stumbles against Regina as the other woman leads her across the apartment towards the bedroom. "I just – I just – "

"I know," Regina says. "But it's late and I'm tired. So are you," she adds, with a sideways glance at Emma. "I want you to sleep this off and then we can talk in the morning."

She doesn't let go of Emma's hand until they're in the bedroom and Emma sinks onto the bed with a grating sigh of surrender. She pushes at her hair and, with her other hand, plucks at her shirt as Regina stands over her. Emma looks completely defeated, Regina thinks. The strong, vibrant woman that she found so inherently attractive has disappeared and, in her place, there's a small, broken figure who looks like a lost child. It's the first time Regina's truly seen Emma this way and it scares her, somewhere deep inside her chest, because for all the things that they've found in one another – and themselves – at the heart of it all it feels like they're both a little lost. A little abandoned and lonely.

The world seems huge tonight. And they, in it, are tiny and insignificant.

"Here," Regina says quietly, bending and unbuttoning Emma's shirt until she can slide it off the blonde's shoulders. "Let me help you." She manages to get Emma out of her jeans and pulls back the covers on the bed, watching the blonde slide beneath them and then pulling them up over Emma's body.

"Sleep," Regina says. She turns to leave the room when there's a hand on her wrist, fingers curling tightly around it and tugging her back towards the bed. Emma's eyes are wide, glistening in the half-light of the room and she lifts her head from the pillow as Regina stares down at her.

"Please don't go," Emma begs. "Please, **please** don't leave me." Her voice is thin and reedy like a frightened child's; Regina relents a little, feeling her anger towards the other woman dissipate.

"I'm going to be right here," she says, prizing Emma's fingers from her wrist, walking around to the other side of the bed and lying down on top of the covers. "I'm not going anywhere tonight, I promise. Now…sleep."

Emma turns onto her side, reaching behind her and pulling Regina's arm around her waist. Then she mumbles something and scoots back until her body bumps against Regina's, closes her eyes and finally drifts into a fitful slumber.

Regina lies awake for a long time, staring into the darkness until she, too, falls asleep.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Emma emerges from the bedroom dressed in pajamas and toweling her wet hair with all the energy of a slug. Regina had woken her and ordered her into the shower, where Emma had leaned against the tiled wall wishing she could die. Her mouth is bone dry and her head is pounding, not to mention that her stomach is churning unreasonably and she's pretty sure that's not going to improve once she goes into the living room. Her memories of the previous night are hazy, to say the least, but she remembers enough to cast a sheen of nervous, nauseous sweat over her forehead.

She wipes at it with her towel and gathers her wet hair back, tying it loosely behind her head as she wanders through the apartment, looking around with a rather confused expression. It's tidy. Really tidy. The newspapers on her coffee table are neatly stacked and all the clothes and shoes that were lying on the floor have been cleared away – Emma's not really sure where but she suspects that Regina's been a lot busier than _she_ has this morning.

The smell of coffee is emanating from the kitchen, along with something that makes Emma's stomach gurgle and she glances down before pressing her hand against it. Whatever it is, it smells delicious. Despite the sourness rising in her throat, Emma can't help but move towards it.

"I made coffee and breakfast, which you're going to eat," Regina says without turning from the stove. She presses a spatula down onto the food in the pan before her, making it sizzle, then takes it off the stove, sliding something onto a plate which she puts in front of Emma.

Dropping onto one of the stools on the other side of the counter, Emma eyes the plate dubiously, but grabs the mug of coffee and swigs deeply, groaning in pleasure at the rich taste. Smacking her lips, she looks across the counter at Regina, who stands with her arms folded and an inscrutable expression on her face.

"You made French toast?" Emma asks, eyes lighting up even though her stomach roils unpleasantly. "And you cleaned my apartment?"

"I had to do something while you were literally comatose in there," Regina says smartly. "And you may be happy living in a pigsty, but if I'm going to visit you here, I don't want to be wading through your mess, thank you very much. Incidentally, were you aware that your toaster is in pieces over there in the corner?" She gestures with the spatula to the morass of metal and naked wiring, and Emma clears her throat, embarrassed.

"I get uh…I like to take things apart when I'm upset," she tells Regina, who rolls her eyes and delicately places the spatula into the kitchen sink.

"So I gather," she murmurs in a tone of voice that makes it clear she's not just talking about the toaster.

Emma picks up the fork by the plate and stabs at the French toast, grimacing a little as her stomach gurgles. "Look, Regina, I don't know if I can – "

"Yes, you can," Regina cuts in. "And you **will**. I want you to be at least a little more lucid than you were last night and food will help."

Emma grumbles under her breath but even the mention of the previous night brings a flush of shame to her cheeks and she dutifully shoves a couple of mouthfuls past her lips, forcing herself to chew down hard. She's surprised at how good the food tastes – not because Regina's a poor cook, but because she didn't think she had an appetite. By the time she's cleared her plate and Regina's poured her a second mug of coffee, Emma's starting to feel almost human again.

"Listen, Regina," Emma says, wrapping her hands around the warm coffee mug and trying to ignore the niggling pain at the back of her head, "about last night. I want to apologize."

Regina's eyebrows rise and she takes a rather dainty sip of her own coffee but says nothing. Emma shifts on the stool and looks pained, dropping her gaze as an awkward silence falls over them both. She looks up again and sees Regina, still with that unreadable look on her face, simply gazing at her over the kitchen counter.

"Well?" Regina finally says, and Emma blinks, then shrugs wordlessly. "You said you wanted to apologize," Regina continues, "so apologize." Her voice is hard and her eyes glitter in the morning light streaming in through the window.

Emma catches her breath, nerves fluttering around inside her ribcage. She realizes that she's not afraid of being sorry or saying so, but she is afraid of the consequences not yet understood or meted out by an angry, hurt Regina.

"About last night," Emma starts hesitantly. "I know I was out of line. I shouldn't have – I was wrong to – what I'm trying to say is that I'm – "

"Really, dear," Regina snorts gently and waves a hand of dismissal in the air. "For someone who claims to be good with words, you're really rather bad at putting them together in any way that makes sense." Her lips purse before she relents a little, leaning back against the sink and shaking her head.

"I don't want your apologies, Emma," she says, glancing down into her coffee cup and swirling the liquid inside around. "I know you're sorry. And I'm hardly one to talk about what happens after consuming too much alcohol, am I?"

"But…I **am** sorry," Emma protests. "About – about the things I said and the things…the things I did." She stares shamefacedly down at the counter, fingertip chasing an errant crumb across the surface.

"Well I have to admit that I'm used to being groped and pushed around by some of the men I'm forced to work with, but I didn't expect it from you," Regina tells her.

"That's disgusting. And it was wrong of me," Emma nods firmly, swallowing more coffee in an attempt to avoid Regina's piercing gaze. It feels like the other woman is staring right through her and, if Emma could find it within herself to resent Regina for it, she's sure she would. But right now she feels almost grateful for it, thankful that there's someone with whom she doesn't have to pretend.

But it doesn't mean she isn't scared shitless by it. Or that she isn't afraid it'll disappear.

Regina laughs and her lips curve into a smile, but it never reaches her eyes. She puts her coffee cup onto the counter by the sink and folds her arms over her chest, turning back to Emma. "Yes, it was wrong of you," she nods. "Very wrong. But I'm still here and I'm waiting for you to tell me what the hell is going on."

Emma feels tears spring to the backs of her eyes and scrubs a fist across them, rubbing furiously as she takes a deep breath. "I don't know," she says, her voice uneven. "I honestly don't know."

"Did you really quit your job for me?" Regina asks, taking a few steps forwards so that she's at the opposite side of the counter to Emma, her fingers toying with the edge of it.

Emma puffs out her cheeks and pushes back a few strands of errant hair from her face, tucking them behind her hear. "No," she said slowly. "I didn't. That's not true and I said that to – to hurt you. Because I knew it would."

"It did," Regina hums, and for the first time this morning, her features move into an expression of pained unrest.

"I just – I couldn't take working there anymore," Emma blurts. "I know you think I'm strong, Regina, but I'm not. I'm weak. I had such grand ideas about what my job should be and now I hate it. I hate what I do and I hate what I've become."

"And drinking to excess helps, does it?"

There's a prosaic tone to Regina's voice that makes Emma growl in frustration and she shakes her head violently, immediately wishing that she hadn't as it throbs and swims a little.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she snaps. "I'm just a fuckup. Is that what you want to hear? I'm a mess, Regina. But I can't fall apart because you need me not to. I can't fall apart because what's happening in **your** life is way more important than what's happening in mine, okay? But, in case you haven't noticed, I don't cope well with being a failure."

Emma's shoulders sag as she ends her rant and her head begins to ache more persistently. She pushes the heel of her hand against her forehead and closes her eyes, sighing. Saying it out loud makes it real. But making it real only serves to exacerbate what she thinks might actually be grief for something she now thinks she might have loved. Loving something and losing it, Emma thinks, is the greatest fear in her life. It's why she so rarely even contemplates the word, let alone actually says it.

She's said it to Regina, though. And as she looks up at the other woman, Emma knows that she's scared she might lose Regina, too.

Regina frowns at her, then leans over the counter, placing her elbows onto it.

"Emma, do you," Regina swallows, holding her breath for a tiny moment, "do you **blame** me – blame **us** for how you feel?"

"I don't blame **you**," Emma tells her. "It's not **your** fault."

"But it **is** making you unhappy," Regina says bluntly, her fingers worrying against one another.

Emma reaches out, putting her hands over Regina's to still their movement, and she wants to cry again. Because she's spent so many years suppressing everything that might have been close to love, that to feel it now, rushing through her veins and bringing light to the darkest recesses of her soul, is overwhelming.

"You're an idiot," she mutters, and almost laughs at how Regina's eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline and her nostrils flare imperiously.

"Excuse me?" Regina glares back at her.

"I told you I love you and it's like…" Emma shakes her head and lets out a breath of sheer wonderment. "I don't say that to people. When I love something, it goes away. Last night, I was almost certain that you would, too. I can get a new job, Regina. Something I actually like doing and that doesn't punish me for being a woman and being in love with you."

Emma's head drops a little and she rubs a thumb over Regina's knuckles. "I'm not great at this, you know? Being with someone. I don't know how, really. I mean," she lets out a huff of dry laughter, "if my own parents didn't want me, then how can anyone else, right? It feels like all the good I've ever had in my life has been taken away from me without me even having a say in it."

"Nobody's taking me away from you," Regina says quietly, and Emma gives a sad little smile in response.

"That's not really what I meant," she tells Regina, and the other woman frowns.

"Then what **do** you mean, Emma? Do you want this to be over? Is that what you're telling me?"

"God, no!" Emma shakes her head and groans a little as it feels like her brain is rattling around inside of it. "I'm telling you that I'm fucking petrified, Regina. I'm scared of everything – how I feel about my job, about not having it anymore, about what the hell I'm going to do now…but most of all, I'm scared of how I feel about you. About what's going to happen when you figure out that I'm not this strong woman you think you've fallen in love with. When you figure out that I'm stupid and weak and just…"

She takes a breath and gulps it down, feeling those tears thicken her throat again. "Just not good enough to do this, you know? Not worth it. Last night…that was about me pushing you away before you work it all out on your own and leave anyway."

Regina gazes at her then puts one of her hands over Emma's. And when she smiles, this time it's real, genuine. And she can't help breathing a sigh of relief for all the things Emma's not saying and all the things she is.

"Emma Swan," she states slowly, "you are a lot of things. You're infuriating, stubborn and challenging in the extreme. But one thing you are **not** is stupid."

As Emma's head drops, Regina reaches out, putting her fingers beneath it and lifting it so that she can look into Emma's eyes. She sees the fear there, the worry that she's never noticed before and that hurts her to see it now. Emma's afraid of living, she thinks, because she's afraid of losing people. She's terrified of having people be important to her because to let them in, to allow herself to care about them and even to love them means that the protection she's built up around herself is weakened. _She's_ weakened.

It's ironic, that Cora insisted on telling Regina that love was a weakness. Especially when it's precisely that vulnerability that Regina craves so much. From _Emma_.

And yet, it's that very same thing that Emma seeks to dispel from her life, lest it ruin her with its absence.

Regina sighs and takes her hand from Emma's chin. "What happened to the woman who told me I just had to punch back and tell people that this is who I am, hm?" she asks gently.

"I'm really more of the punch first, ask questions later sort of woman," Emma admits ruefully. "And I'm not you. It's different."

"Is it?" Regina muses, head tilting onto one side. "Just because you think your parents rejected you doesn't mean that everyone else will. It doesn't mean that I will."

"No?" Emma laughs bitterly. "And what if I reject you first? What if I'm not strong enough to keep doing this? What if I mess it all up?"

"Maybe you're not strong enough," Regina murmurs. "But maybe together, we are."

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	15. Chapter 15 - Concurrent Powers

Emma slides her cellphone out of her jacket pocket as she lets herself into Regina's house, glancing at the time and rolling her eyes. She's about half an hour later than she promised – and at least an hour later than she would have liked. But freelancing means that she has to be where the story is and, tonight, it took its own sweet time in surfacing at a meeting that was so boring, Emma feels sure she fell asleep for three hours and missed nothing.

She makes her way across the hall, peering into the darkness of the living room. Regina's probably already in bed and, judging from the deafening silence coming from the rest of the house downstairs, Emma suspects there may not be the warmest welcome waiting for her upstairs.

Still, she sighs, trudging up the staircase, they've seen each other so irregularly over the last few months that _any _time they get to spend together these days is something of a gift. Because it's all very well promising to split their weeks between their two homes, but planning something and having it _actually_ work out are two very different things. And since Regina's been throwing herself full tilt into a re-election campaign so that she's way ahead of the curve when it comes to battling her opponents, evenings like this, when they're in the same place at the same time, have become something of a rarity.

Emma's expecting a warm bed, a warm body and some time alone with Regina. It's long overdue, after all.

What she's _not_ expecting is the sight that greets her as she pushes open the bedroom door.

"At last," Regina's voice greets her, and she's practically _purring_. "I've been waiting for you."

Emma opens her mouth to say something, but her throat is impossibly dry and her lips move but no sound comes out. Hardly surprising, really, when her brain is popping and crackling inside her head, short-circuiting and throwing up fragments of words but nothing that actually makes any sense. Because Regina is seductively reclining on the bed, head on hand. And she's wearing black silk.

_No_; Emma blinks and shakes her head. There really _aren't_ words to describe what Regina's wearing. And for all the descriptive language at her disposal on a daily basis, the only word Emma can come up with that means anything is _hot_.

But it's more than that. Regina's dressed in a bustier that accentuates curves she usually keeps well hidden beneath her politician's garb. There's a lace trim that follows the swell of her breasts before dipping between them; boning juts out of the silken material, bending – but not too much – with the shape of her body and there are metal hooks down the front of the thing that Emma wonders, at the back of her mind, if she's going to be able to undo with fingers that suddenly feel like lead. Because the bustier extends into garters that have sheer stockings attached which draw Emma's eyes down the length of Regina's legs and then back up again, roaming over the whole outfit and thinking that it must be her birthday. Or _all_ of them, come at once.

"I'm taking your silence as tacit approval," Regina hums, shifting on the bed slightly, one stockinged leg whispering over the other.

"I…uh…" Emma forces out, but the synapses in her brain are firing on all cylinders and she swallows dryly, shaking her head.

"I thought, as we haven't seen one another for a few days, that this might constitute something of a reunion," Regina smiles. "So why don't you take off your clothes and come here, hm?"

She beckons like a femme fatale, and Emma complies with a stumbling, bumbling haste. She tears off her jacket and shirt, tripping over her boots as she tries to kick them and her jeans off in one fell swoop. By the time she half-sits, half-lands on the edge of the bed, she's fumbling with her bra until it, too, is lying on the floor beside her clothes.

Regina moves closer to her on the bed and Emma's breathing hitches as perfume wafts over her; she closes her eyes, breathing it in. It feels like musky, sensuous tendrils of some kind of spell, intoxicating her with a special kind of magic that she can't help but lean towards. And, when she does, Regina lifts a hand and trails it through her hair.

"I thought about you **constantly** this week," she says, rubbing a strand of blonde between her finger and thumb. "So I felt compelled to buy this. I thought you might appreciate it."

"You thought right," Emma says thickly, opening her eyes. Regina is gazing at her so intently, with such dark purpose that her heart feels like it almost stops beating for a second. "You look…breathtaking," she whispers, and Regina's mouth curves into a beatific smile.

"That's really rather the point of wearing these things, isn't it?" she murmurs. "If only my potential voters could see me now," she adds, with a chuckle.

"You'd win by a landslide," Emma tells her, reaching out and grasping Regina's shoulders, pulling the other woman towards her for a kiss that speaks of separation, of distance and time spent without the other. It's desperate and, judging from the agonized groan that comes from Regina's throat, it's also mutual.

Regina draws back breathlessly, lips parted and chest heaving. She searches Emma's face with a wonder that confuses the blonde, then shakes her head and smiles again. She shifts backwards on the bed, allowing Emma a glorious sight that has the blonde humming in naked, raw desire and leaning towards her again.

"You're not wearing underwear," Emma says in a growl, moving sinuously across the surface of the bed.

Regina laughs and looks at Emma from beneath hooded eyes. "And you **are**," she says pointedly, "which rather gets in the way of a little game I thought we might play together."

"A **game**?" Emma's eyebrows rise and she sits back on the bed as Regina smooths her hands down the front of her bustier, fingertips lingering on the fine boning just long enough to make Emma bite down on her bottom lip. "What kind of game?" she asks.

"One that involves **you** being naked and **me** wearing this," Regina says, with a little smirk. "And as much as I'd like you to be ripping this outfit off me, I had something else in mind for tonight. So, please, remove your underwear and lie back on the bed."

She says it so calmly that Emma huffs out a breath of laughter as she wriggles out of her underwear and drops it over the side of the bed. Utterly naked, she lies down in the center of the bed and stretches her arms above her head, even going so far as to yawn a little.

"So," she says as Regina's gaze rakes down her body, "you know I don't much go in for playing games, right?"

"Oh, I know," Regina responds softly, reaching out to lay one of her palms over Emma's thigh. She smiles at the sharp intake of breath she hears and inches her fingers over Emma's musculature, nails scraping at the soft flesh on the woman's inner thigh. Emma sighs and her hips cant upwards as though begging to be touched and explored, but Regina merely laughs and takes her hand away. "But I promise you it's a game that we can both win," she finally says, as Emma glowers at her, frustrated.

"I'm not loving it so far," Emma grouses, and Regina leans down over her – providing a view of her décolletage that makes Emma gulp and swallow hard – and stops just short of Emma's mouth.

"Not all games are meant to be enjoyed, dear," Regina rumbles in a voice that has Emma breathing hard. She can feel the other woman's body hovering over her own, the lace and silk and hardness of the bustier, with such inherent softness beneath it. And she whimpers a little because she's missed Regina more than she can – and will – ever say. More than she allows herself to think about. _Much_ more than a heart can withstand, surely?

"I've been thinking about what you said," Regina tells Emma, straddling the blonde's hips, her stocking-clad knees pressing up against Emma's skin. "When you were drunk and not so careful with the truth."

Emma can feel Regina, already wet, sliding over her pubis and she pushes up a little. Enough to make Regina clench her teeth together, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

"That was months ago," Emma protests mildly, but Regina tilts her head onto one side in refute.

"It doesn't mean that it wasn't the truth," she says. "And it doesn't mean that you don't feel that there's a power differential between us."

Regina trails her fingers over Emma's shoulders, brushing them all the way down Emma's arms to the tips of her fingers and then back again, lingering at her wrists. Curling her hands around them, Regina lifts the blonde's arms and bends them so that Emma's hands are pressed into the pillow on either side of her head.

"I wanted to show you that power is…well," Regina smirks again, "it's a moveable feast."

"What do you mean?" Emma breathes, flexing her arms and finding Regina unreasonably strong. There's a tiny flicker of panic in her gut because she hates being held down by this: it reminds her of too many struggles in foster homes that she wants to forget; too many boys she can't remember properly and doesn't want to. Just too many times when she was weak and couldn't fight back.

She's spent the rest of her life doing just that, promising herself that she'll never be weak again.

Only, she _is_ weak for Regina. And it cuts right to the heart of her, slicing through inhibitions and caution like a razor. A clean wound. Precise.

"What I mean is that you don't think you have any power, and you're wrong about that," Regina says quietly, and she swirls her hips again over Emma's, pressing down hard enough to smear wetness onto Emma's skin. Both women sigh a little and Emma moves beneath Regina, feeling a low throb of want begin in the pit of her stomach.

"Is this the game, then?" Emma grinds out, jaw hardening as she turns her head on the pillow.

"No, my silly, beautiful, wonderful Emma," Regina's voice washes over her in a flood of warmth and liquid heat that trickles down her entire body. A hand is on Emma's face, turning it so that she's looking up directly into Regina's eyes and she balks a little because for all the affection that she sees in them, Emma knows that love brings danger, too.

"The game is that you mustn't touch me," Regina continues in a silken, evocative tone. "You have to listen to what I'm telling you, but you can't touch me. Not until I say you can."

"That sounds more like torture, not a game," Emma says through gritted teeth, and she hears Regina chuckle, soft and low.

"I need you to listen carefully," Regina says, "because I'm going to tell you about where true power lies."

"I'm listening," Emma responds, and she blinks rapidly to try and dispel the buzzing in her head, the nearness of the other woman, the way that Regina leans over her and drops her head to place a burning kiss on the side of Emma's neck.

"Good girl," Regina murmurs, and Emma squeezes her eyes tight shut. She remembers, with a thickening throat, all the times she sought to earn that title; all the times she was compliant and never heard it.

"Do you have **any** idea what you do to me?" Regina whispers, and Emma wants to reply but she can't; it feels as though her breath is stuck in her chest, tight and aching as Regina places another kiss on her neck, lips trailing down towards her clavicle and then across her breastbone.

Rising, Regina shifts slightly and plunges the hand that's not holding Emma's wrist down between her legs. She lets out a groan as she moves her fingers inside herself, then withdraws them. By the time they're hovering in front of Emma's eyes, she can see that they're glistening wet. Emma can smell Regina's arousal and it lights a fire in her belly that licks down to the tops of her thighs; it makes her heart beat faster and brings a hot flush to her cheeks.

"**This** is power, Emma," Regina tells her. "All the time I was away, I thought about you. About how you make me feel and how you've liberated me – in so many ways that my head spins. Do you understand?"

Emma nods dumbly, unable to take her eyes from the other woman.

"Do you want to taste how you make me feel?" Regina husks, and Emma hears her throat click as she tries to swallow.

"Regina," Emma hisses, as the other woman's fingers dip temptingly close to her mouth, "please…"

She parts her lips as Regina rubs the tips of her fingers over them, coating them with sticky-sweet musk. Then Regina pushes her fingers inside Emma's mouth as the blonde sucks greedily on them, scraping over knuckles with her teeth and circling around manicured nails with her tongue. Regina pushes down onto Emma's hips again with her own, parting her legs slightly and letting out a faint moan as she makes contact. Her fingers around Emma's wrist flex slightly, and Emma can feel the half-moon pinpricks of sensation as Regina's nails dig into her skin.

"You think I want you just for this, don't you?" Regina pulls her fingers from Emma's mouth with a little pop and puts her hand back onto Emma's free wrist, pressing it back into the pillow. "You think that's all you're useful for."

"All…" Emma licks her lips, still tasting Regina on them, and she closes her eyes briefly, heart fluttering inside her chest. "All I've **ever** been useful for. It's all I've ever been good at."

The pressure of lips on her jaw opens her eyes and Emma gazes up at the ceiling as Regina's mouth travels slowly towards her ear, tingling a path of sensation along with it. Then Regina's head drops lower and she trails the tip of her tongue down over the curve of Emma's breast until it circles around a nipple that's already peaked and hard. Emma lets out an agonized cry and arches her back, pushing her breast further into Regina's mouth until the other woman laughs and lifts her head.

"Oh, Emma, **no**," Regina breathes. "I couldn't do this with anyone else." She bends her head and takes Emma's nipple between her teeth, biting down on it hard enough to make the blonde whine and writhe beneath her.

"I couldn't **be** this with anyone else," Regina says, her voice cracking as she moves to take Emma's other nipple into her mouth, sucking hard on it and eliciting a glorious moan that echoes in the air above her head. "I've **never** been this way before."

"God…Regina…" Emma grinds out, and wrests her arms from Regina's grip, plunging her hands into thick, black hair and yanking Regina's head from her flesh. She stares at the other woman, taking in Regina's wet, plump lips and the remains of lipstick that's smeared across them. Jaw hardening, Emma feels a muscle in her arm twitch as her fingers tighten in Regina's hair and she's filled with a sudden urge to ruin the other woman, to topple her from where's she's astride her own hips and ravage her. It's an almost uncontrollable urge and Emma sucks air in through her nose, grinding her back teeth together. Regina's eyes widen, then they darken to gleaming black and she smiles down at Emma.

"Oh **dear**," she says gently, and her features assume an expression of mock-pity that pushes out her lips. "I'm afraid you've lost the game, Emma."

"What? But I – " Emma starts, then stops as she realizes she's touching Regina. She snatches her hands from Regina's hair and presses them back against the pillow again, all thoughts of conquering the other woman dissipating. "I didn't mean to. I didn't."

But Regina's already clambering off her, moving to the end of the bed and sliding off it onto her feet. She puts her hands onto her hips and tosses her head; Emma swallows hard as she watches Regina saunter across the room to a chair in the corner, lowering herself into it and crossing one leg over the other. There's an almost cruel look that colors her features and Emma rises up onto her elbows and stares longingly at Regina, penitent and wide-eyed.

"Do you know why I wanted to wear this for you?" Regina asks, sweeping a hand down the front of her bustier. Emma shakes her head, afraid to break her silence, afraid to do anything that might make Regina move further away.

"You're brave," Regina states. "It's who you are, Emma. You're one of the bravest people I know, and all the things you've said to me and done for me have made **me** brave."

"I make you…I make you **brave**?" Emma echoes, confusion drawing lines around her eyes.

"Yes. Brave enough to wear something like this," Regina says, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth. "Brave enough to want things from you that I've never wanted from anyone else before. And I don't just mean sex, Emma. I can get **that** anywhere." Her upper lip curls in a sneer that makes her look proud, defiant, impossibly beautiful. Emma draws in a harsh breath as Regina leans back in the chair, sliding one leg from where it's perched on the other and planting both feet onto the carpet.

"But I don't want just anyone. I want you."

Regina stretches out her arms, fingertips curving over her knees before they begin a trickling, fluttering journey up her legs towards her thighs. She stops when she reaches the straps of the garter belt, firmly attached to the lacy tops of the stockings.

"I want every partof you," Regina says, and her voice drifts into a hazy sort of tone, head reclining onto the back of the chair. "I want all the parts you show me and all the parts you hide away. I want to consume you the way you consume me. That's your power, Emma. You think you don't have any. When, really, you have it **all**."

With some difficulty, she lifts her head and her eyes blaze a searing look across the room to meet Emma's gaze. Regina parts her legs and lets out a hissing breath as she touches herself slowly, languorously. Her mouth falls open and her chest heaves beneath the constraint of the bustier as she dips her fingers inside, curving them then sliding them out and around the swollen, sensitive head of her clitoris.

Emma doesn't realize she's holding her breath until she lets it out in a whistling, harsh stream. Her hips are moving, rolling almost of their own accord and she can't take her eyes off Regina. This is a different woman, somehow. Regina is audacious, caught in the sensation of her own caress. And Emma is merely a voyeur, a witness to the way Regina's starting to sway, urged on by her own fingers and the sight of Emma, arrested, all the way across the room.

"Come here," Emma finally manages to say, her voice a hushed, reverent whisper in the room.

Regina never breaks eye contact, but her mouth curves slightly as she smiles and shakes her head. "No."

"Jesus, Regina," Emma growls, struggling up into a sitting position. "Come the fuck over here, **now**."

Regina's hips lift off the chair as she thrusts her fingers inside herself and she lets out a high-pitched whimper that sends a shiver down Emma's spine. Biting at her lower lip, it's a moment before Regina can find her voice and it hitches as she shakes her head again. "No. You lost the game. You don't get to touch me now."

As Emma makes to move off the bed, Regina holds up her free hand, wavering unsteadily in the air. "Don't you dare," she barks hoarsely. "You take one step and I'll stop. I promise, Emma."

Emma can't explain the feeling that washes over her all of a sudden. It informs all her senses, heightening them and imbuing her with a confidence that she's always assumed before, but often never truly felt. Now it runs through her veins like quicksilver and she knows that what Regina says is true. She really _does_ have power. For the first time in her life, Emma understands that she's not weakened by the way she feels, nor is she diminished by it. No; for the first time in years of pretending that she is, now Emma _actually_ feels invincible.

It's why she rises from the bed and bears down on Regina, taking long, quick strides across the room. It's why Regina doesn't resist when Emma kneels in front of her and hooks her hands beneath Regina's knees, yanking them apart.

"If you stop," Emma says darkly, looking up at Regina's wide eyes, shining like burnished bronze, "then we both lose."

Regina makes a plaintive noise that's somewhere between faint protestation and complete surrender, and she feels tears rise in her throat as Emma leans in and wraps her fingers around Regina's wrist.

"I don't want to stop," Emma tells her. "Do you?"

Clamping her lips together, Regina shakes her head, just once. Emma guides Regina's hand back between her legs and presses it to the wettest part of her, nodding in approval as Regina's fingers plunge inside and then retreat to circle her clitoris once more. Emma takes one of Regina's legs and hooks it over her shoulder, shifting the other woman forwards on the chair until she can bend her head and place a kiss on the innermost, uppermost part of Regina's thigh. She hears a restrained moan, tight and wanton, from above her head and thrusts her head forwards. By the time her tongue slicks a line through flesh that's hot and throbbing under her mouth, Emma's got Regina's leg firmly held over her shoulder and is diving in deeper.

Regina is rubbing herself faster now, moving onto Emma's mouth and panting heavily. Emma's mouth is everywhere, her tongue darting, flicking; lips sucking and nibbling. As Regina calls out her name and entreats her to _never stop_, Emma feels lust surge through her veins, overrunning anything and everything else. Rearing back, Emma grips Regina's leg, nails digging into the sheer silk of the stockings and the skin beyond it. Then she takes her free hand and plunges her fingers inside Regina, right up the knuckle. It makes Regina cry out, her voice broken and tortured as Emma kneels up between her legs.

"Kiss me," Emma says, her mouth glistening with Regina's wetness. "Kiss me and come for me, Regina." She leans forwards as far as she can, Regina's leg sliding from her shoulder as she insinuates herself between the other woman's legs. When they kiss, it's urgent and breathless and messy and it tastes of Regina. Emma groans as Regina's tongue slides into her mouth and thrusts harder, deeper, faster. Regina can barely keep pace with her and their hands bump against one another, heat and passion covering their skin with a damp sheen.

"I'm – " Regina gasps against Emma's mouth. "Emma, I'm – "

Emma kisses her hard – so hard that she feels her teeth crash against Regina's lip and wonders absently if she'll leave bruises. Then she curls her fingers inside the other woman and moves them in and out furiously. "I know," she says through gritted teeth. "I **know** – just please – **please**, Regina. I love you **so** much. Please."

Regina lets out a guttural moan that comes from the very heart of her, then she falls silent, mouth open and head pressed back against the chair. Her eyes fly wide as she stiffens under Emma's touch, under her own fingers that are still pinching and squeezing at her clitoris. When she comes, it's with a rushing, sobbing sort of sound that has her shuddering and falling against Emma, whose arm comes up to curve around her. It holds her steady as she shakes and falls towards a sublimation she never thought possible, let alone could be found in the safety and solidity of the woman holding her. It's all too much, too great and too overwhelming for one heart to contain.

Regina knows she shouldn't even try anymore. She doesn't want to.

All she wants – all she _needs_ – is this: the power that comes surrender, from giving in and simply allowing herself to _be_.

"I've missed you, Regina," Emma's voice tickles at her ear. "And I love you. And I'm here. I've got you."

Regina sighs out a breath that's ragged and broken, like she used to be. But slowly, the pieces that she thought were irretrievable are being found and put back together. Soon, she thinks, there's every chance that they might make a whole.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	16. Chapter 16 - In-Kind Subsidies

Emma's already pacing in the hall by the time Regina follows her inside the house and closes the door gently behind her. She can't help the flicker of irritation at the base of her throat: acidic and burning and threatening to spoil their evening. But she tamps down on the feeling and folds her arms across her chest instead, waiting. Her feet are already starting to hurt in the ridiculously high-heeled shoes she's wearing, and Regina's fairly certain that the deep blue velvet dress she has on is starting to make her skin itch, but she keeps still and quiet anyway.

Marching to the wall, then turning with a huff of frustration and stomping across the hallway to the other side, Emma clenches her fists down by her sides and shakes her head. It's quite an arresting sight, Regina thinks. Emma is dressed in an exquisite, scarlet ball gown that makes her look somewhat like a fairytale princess. Her usually unruly blonde hair is piled up onto the back of her head, carefully teased tendrils falling past her ears and Regina's almost surprised by how beautiful Emma is. How _different_ she looks. How she became someone else tonight at the fundraiser, sweeping gracefully across the floor when an aging Republican asked her to dance.

Her features, however, are all too recognizable. Contorted into an expression of dissatisfaction and – Regina notes with a heavy heart – near-disgust, Emma is chewing on her bottom lip in agitation before she finally stops pacing, standing in the middle of the hallway. She looks at Regina and there's a fire in her eyes that makes them burn as she turns her gaze on the unsuspecting Senator.

"Are you going to tell me what's got you so irate or do I have to guess?" Regina asks laconically, and sees Emma's eyes narrow, her jaw hardening.

"You really don't know, do you?" Emma spits.

"Actually, no," Regina says evenly. "I thought we were having a perfectly nice time, given that I despise going to those sorts of things and have been forced into doing so my entire political career."

"**You** despise them?" Emma scoffs, tossing her head. "Is that why you never stopped smiling at those men putting their hands all over you? Yeah, you looked **real** disgusted by that, Regina."

Regina frowns and watches as Emma kicks off her shoes – red, to match her gown and with spiked heels that Regina eyes with some latent want – and lets out a disgruntled, grating sigh.

"Are you angry at **me** or are you jealous of **them**?" Regina asks, genuinely confused. Emma turns a baleful glance her way and Regina lifts her hands in the air, shrugging slowly. "You can't **possibly** think that I enjoy it, Emma. But you might have noticed that it was a fundraiser, and I needed to make myself as appealing as possible to people who have vast amounts of money to put into my campaign, let alone the sort of support they can offer in wider circles."

"I **know** how politics works," Emma snaps, shaking her head. "And I'm not jealous – I don't get jealous of people like that."

"Then what the hell **is** it?" Regina demands, lifting her chin and gazing imperiously at Emma, her irritation getting the better of her. Emma's nostrils flare and Regina can see a muscle ticking in her cheek as the blonde clenches her hands into fists again. Whatever Emma was going to say, however, remains stifled by her lips, clamped into a hard, unforgiving line. She casts a reproachful look at Regina, then turns on her heel and stomps up the stairs.

Regina lets out a long sigh, head dropping onto her chest; she closes her eyes briefly and struggles to keep her rising anger in check. Then she follows Emma with a heavy, reluctant gait.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Emma's craning her neck and trying to reach around to the back of her dress but she's frustrated and angry and every time her fingers snatch at the zipper, she can't quite hold it long enough to pull it down. By the time Regina enters the bedroom, Emma's growling and cursing aloud, turning around in a way that might be comical were it not for the look of abject fury on her face.

"Here," Regina says, moving forwards and holding out her hands, "let me." She pats away Emma's futile attempts to undress and draws the zipper downwards. Emma stays still only long enough for her dress to fall loosely from her shoulders before she's lurching away from Regina, yanking the gown off her body and letting it fall to the carpet in a rustle of taffeta.

Regina's eyebrow arches as Emma stumbles out of the dress, clad only in the pair of silk lingerie panties and stockings that Regina had bought especially for her. Emma's lip curls as she fumbles with the garter belt and she sneers a little as she sees the gleam in Regina's eyes.

"Like what you see?" she hisses, deciding to abandon the garter belt. She straightens and puts her hands on her hips, pushing them forwards provocatively. But it's challenging and aggressive and not, Regina thinks ruefully, in the way Emma's been before. No; _this_ Emma is horribly belligerent and ready for a fight.

Oddly enough, considering how their relationship started, Regina just isn't sure she wants to give her one.

"Well, when you put them on this evening, I rather envisaged **I'd** be the one taking them off," Regina hums quietly.

"Yeah," Emma nods, her head moving in sharp, little jerks, "I **bet** you did. When you'd finished showing me off to all your fancy friends and parading me around like some sort of show pony."

"Some sort of…?" Regina's eyes fly wide open in horror. "Emma, I invited you to the fundraiser because you're my – my – "

"Because I'm your **what**?" Emma spits. "Jesus, Regina, if you can't even **say** it then what the hell am I supposed to think? You dress me up in this thing," she kicks at the dress, lying in a heap on the floor, "and then expect me to smile and make nice with people who are systematically ruining this country. Do you have any idea – **any** idea at **all** – how that makes me feel?"

"I bought you that dress because I wanted to do something nice for you!" Regina protests, her horror turning to blatant offense.

"Like I'm your charity project?" Emma darts back. "I'm not poor, Regina. I just don't think that spending twelve hundred dollars on a dress you're going to wear once, maybe twice, isn't exactly a wise use of money when you're trying to raise funds for your campaign."

"Those are two entirely different things," Regina huffs, folding her arms again and casting a baleful glare down at the dress. "And it wasn't twelve hundred dollars. In fact, it was quite a bit more because I think **you're** worth quite a bit more than you clearly assume I do."

She's haughty now, standing imperiously as Emma stares at her then rolls her eyes, shaking her head and letting out a mirthless laugh.

"Great," she growls. "Well you let me know how much I owe you and I'll write you a check."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Regina smarts.

"No – don't **you** be ridiculous!" Emma lifts a hand and points an accusatory finger in Regina's direction. "You let those people dismiss you and make disgusting allusions to your private life – that I'm a part of, if you haven't forgotten – and you smile and scrape and bow like none of it matters. Like they're not gross and inappropriate and like you're not the woman I thought you were."

"The woman you think I am still has an election to win," Regina states bluntly.

"Oh, I haven't forgotten," Emma retorts. "But you forgot to mention that whoring us out socially was part of your tactics. I hope you got your money's worth when all those people were looking down on me and pretending like they don't think I'm the trashy journalist wearing a pretty dress and way out of my league."

Her voice seems to echo in the bedroom and Regina opens her mouth to say something when she sees the look of hurt crossing over Emma's features, sharp lines drawn around her eyes.

"Nobody thinks that. Nobody would say that."

"Please," Emma scoffs, head jerking back on her neck. "Everyone thinks that. Just because they're not saying it to your face doesn't mean they don't. I **know** these people. I've been around them before and so have you. You have to know what they're like. How they make me feel."

Regina frowns, drawing closer to Emma. That look of hurt is lingering on Emma's face, painting her eyes a deep shade of worry. Regina can't help wondering if it's always been there. If she's missed it because she's never looked properly, or long enough or hard enough. Or perhaps it's just been that, recently, she's been myopic and focused on her electoral campaign. Whatever the reason, Emma's trying to school her features into something that's hard enough to withstand the way Regina's gazing at her now. Her nostrils flare and she meets Regina's gaze head on with assumed defiance. Then she wavers and looks away, down at the bed where her jeans and a t-shirt are lying. Emma snatches them up in one hand and bends, tugging her pants on over the silk stockings.

"Emma," Regina says, but the blonde ignores her, grunting as she makes slow progress with her jeans.

"Emma, you need to stop and talk to me," Regina insists. She's trying to be sympathetic, trying to be magnanimous, but it doesn't come easily. Underneath it all – below the instinct to reach out to Emma and soothe her as best she can – there's a rumble of growing anger and Regina clenches her back teeth together in an effort to suppress it.

"I don't **want** to talk," Emma bites, yanking her jeans up over her hips and jumping up and down until she can hastily fasten them. "I don't **want** to have to explain to you why tonight was a bad idea, and why you can't seem to understand that I don't fit into your social world at all. What I want is to go home and forget this happened." She wriggles into her tank top and pulls it down, her hair suddenly messy and unkempt, the pile it was expertly bundled into coming loose.

"Well I **don't**," Regina says firmly, and she moves to block the bedroom door, folding her arms over her chest and staring Emma down as the other woman marches across the room towards her. "I don't want to forget something that's clearly made you uneasy."

"Why should you give a flying fuck how I feel?" Emma spits, and she's more than a little intimidating as she faces Regina. "You're going to get what you want, aren't you? All those contributors who'll pay to put you where they want you because you smiled at them and laughed at their jokes."

She smiles bitterly and shakes her head. "An old colleague once told me that the oldest profession in the world was prostitution, then politics. But he also said that it was sometimes hard to tell the difference between the two. I never really understood what he meant until tonight."

Emma's voice is hard and unforgiving. Her eyes glitter and Regina balks for a second because she sees real hatred in them. It's the hatred of a system, an ideology, a way of life that Emma has no way of understanding, let alone possessing the desire to. And yet, it's all Regina's ever known. She's been groomed for it; cajoled and berated and seduced into it, even.

But even as Regina acknowledges what Emma is saying – and there's a part of her, deep down inside that agrees with her – she's beset with the desire to defend it. Because if she's not a politician; if she's not the woman her life has molded her into, then who is she? _What_ is she?

Regina can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, feel her chest tightening and all thoughts of guilt or sympathy fly from her brain. She straightens, arms dropping down by her sides and takes a step closer to Emma, chin jutting out challengingly.

"I've been called a lot of things in my time," Regina says in a low, almost threatening tone, "but I'm not sure I've ever been called a whore."

As she breathes the word out in a hiss of air, Emma relents a little. There's a feverish gleam to Regina's gaze; her eyes are dark, fathomless. Emma knows that she's overstepped the mark, but she also knows that her pride won't let her retreat.

"I'm not sure I've ever felt like one," she finally says, almost choking on the words. "And if that's all I am to you and those people you were toadying to tonight, then I don't want any part of it."

She reaches out, blindly pushing Regina out of the way and runs from the room.

It's only when Regina hears the front door slam that she realizes Emma's gone.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Two days later, Emma's at Regina's door. She shuffles on the doorstep, briefly making eye contact with Regina then looking away, down at her feet. An apology is on her lips, but her tongue twists over it, the taste bitter and unpleasant. She knows what needs to be done – she's known ever since she burst from Regina's house after the fundraiser and made a bid for freedom. It's what she's good at, after all: her self-preservation a finely honed instinct that's sharp and lethal. She'd sucked in huge lungfuls of air as she'd stumbled down the path, reminding herself of what it felt like to breathe again.

Sometimes, Emma feels like she's intoxicated. It feels sometimes as though her judgment is impaired and she can't quite hang on to the way of life she'd carved out for herself before Regina began whittling away at it. It's why she's always abjured love because it means necessarily giving up parts of herself. But she can't resist Regina; she can't stop feeling the way she does and she can't deny the unmistakable allure the other woman has. Whatever is between them has swayed her from her sticking point. And when she finally looks up at Regina, Emma feels the air around her thicken and press against her skin with clammy, insistent fingers.

"I assume you're here to apologize." Regina speaks first, her fingers tightening around the edge of the front door.

"I want to explain," Emma tells her. And the apology that she'd prepared on the journey here is swallowed, ingested, forgotten.

Regina's mouth curves in a tight little smile but her eyes are solemn, unwaveringly fixed on Emma's face. She hums in acknowledgement, fingers flexing around the edge of the door.

"Really, dear, there's no need. I think you said everything you wanted to the other night. Perhaps," Regina adds with a vicious little smirk, "you also said everything you **didn't** want to."

"Yeah," Emma clears her throat and has the good grace to flush pink, "I want to explain about that."

"I'm sorry," Regina bends a little, assuming an air of confusion. "Was I mistaken when you insinuated that I was whoring myself out to wealthy contributors at the fundraiser?"

"No – I didn't insinuate – "

"No, you **didn't**," Regina cuts in, and her confusion disappears. Her eyes are bright and hard, her face drawn tightly. "You **actually** said it outright. You **actually** said," she breathes heavily, "that it's how I make you feel."

"Look, can we talk about this inside?" Emma glances around and shuffles her feet again. She doesn't like the thought that they're still being watched, that she's paranoid and suspicious. She has little to hide these days, however, but still feels overly protective of what she considers belongs to her.

Only, she's not sure that what she and Regina have _does_ belong to her anymore. Sometimes she thinks she can feel it slipping through her fingers like sand, whiling away the time they have left before it ends and she's alone again.

Regina shrugs dismissively but stands back and gestures for Emma to enter the house. Closing the door behind them, Regina turns and merely gazes at Emma, eyebrows lifted in silent demand.

Emma brings a bag out from behind her back, holding it towards Regina. She winces as the plastic crackles in her hands and can't fail to see the rather questionable expression flitting over Regina's face.

"It's the uh…the stockings and garter belt and uh…the underwear you got me," Emma says. "I washed them – I mean – they're clean."

Regina snorts softly and wraps her arms around her torso as Emma waves the bag in front of her. "And what on earth do you imagine that **I'd** want with them?" she asks incredulously.

"I don't – " Emma starts, then chews on her lower lip and drops her arm down by her side, the bag rustling in protest. "I don't need them, Regina. I don't need anything like that from you. It's what I was saying the other night. I can buy my own stuff."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that," Regina snaps. "It was a gift, Emma. And the fact that you misconstrued my intentions in buying you a dress means that you don't really understand what a gift is."

"Well I haven't had many of them," Emma retorts bluntly. "When you grow up in the foster system, you don't exactly have people spending a whole bunch of dollars on you. **Ever**."

There's a look that passes through Regina's eyes, something close to pity. It flickers and burns for a moment, then disappears as though it was never there at all. But it _was_, and Emma bristles as she clenches her fingers, the plastic bag creaking a little as it stretches under her touch.

"I don't need your sympathy, either," Emma retorts. "It happened. It was shitty. It's over. I take care of myself now."

"And you're evidently doing a **superb** job of that," Regina hums, hugging herself a little tighter. She knows it's baiting Emma to criticize the sort of life she's never really garnered for herself. At least Emma's never had to apologize to anyone for her failures. She's owned them. Regina's failures have been swept under so many carpets by so many of her mother's minions that it's hard to remember they ever existed at all.

_Which was probably the entire point_, she muses with regret.

"Shit, do you ever stop?" Emma barks. She glares at Regina and whatever conciliation she anticipated would come from her visit fades into the ether.

"Do **you**?" Regina darts back. "You called me a whore, Emma. Someone who willingly sells herself for the favors of others. Is that what you think of me?"

"I dunno," Emma shrugs in a nonchalant manner that puts two livid spots of color high up on Regina's cheeks, "is that what you think of **me**?"

"Of course it isn't!" Regina's voice rises and she presses herself against the front door, hoping that its heavy solidity will give her the strength she needs. Because the anxiety she's been feeling in waves for the last two days is ebbing her resistance and she's on the verge of throwing herself on Emma's mercy and begging forgiveness for transgressions she isn't even aware she's made. "I wanted you there with me, Emma. That night. I wanted you by my side because I – because I love you and I trust you and I needed you there. Don't you understand that? I would never – "

Regina gulps in air and clamps her lips together. She feels her throat ache over angry tears that prickle behind her eyes and she wills herself – _commands _herself – not to cry. Not over this. Not now.

"No, you would never," Emma's voice reaches her and it's strained, almost hoarse. "But did you see them, Regina? Did you see them there that night?"

Regina shakes her head, jerking it from side to side. "Who? Republicans? Yes, Emma, I saw them everywhere."

"No," Emma sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "Your mother. Gold."

"I knew they were attending but I avoided them. That's what I do now, you see," Regina says bitterly. "I avoid my own mother and the man who taught me all I know because I'm no longer useful to them. What they wanted from me was…it's too much. A higher price than I'm willing to pay."

Her voice is laced with pain and Emma can't help but respond to it. She drops the plastic bag and moves forwards, reaching out for Regina. But the other woman shakes her head vigorously and presses herself back against the front door again, so hard that her body thuds onto the wood. She recoils from Emma's outstretched hands, and there's an odd expression of fear on her face. Emma recognizes it, a dark blanket of disgust settling deep in her belly. She knows that feeling all too well: once someone has touched the untouchable, it's never quite the same again.

_They'll_ never be the same again.

"You wanna know why I was so pissed when we got back here?" Emma rocks back on her heels, settling for shoving her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. If she can't touch Regina; if she's not permitted to entreat the other woman with contact, then she'll have to do it with words. She'll simply have to keep her temper under control. Emma sighs inwardly: it's no easy task at the best of times and especially not when she's reminded of Cora Mills and Rupert Gold and the way they smiled at her as they spoke.

"They came to me, you know," Emma continues. "At the fundraiser. You were in the middle of a group of old white guys – in your element, actually," she adds with a grim smile.

"They approached you?" Regina says, her voice reed-thin.

"Oh yeah," Emma nods, puffing out her cheeks. "Said they wanted to tell me a few things about you. About me and you, actually. About how you were using your – our – relationship to raise your profile and get votes. About how I'm a means to an end for you, that's all. Your mother even told me I looked very pretty and she hoped I knew that scarlet was always the color you dressed your playthings in."

"Emma…" Regina breathes harshly. "You didn't believe them?"

"Well, no," Emma says, but she remembers how it felt and how Cora and Gold looked at her like she was nothing. Like she was just another girl that Regina could use in whatever way she wanted. Like she didn't matter. _Doesn't_ matter.

She looks at Regina and screws up her face in doubtful repudiation. "It's just…the things they told me, they got into my head, you know?" Lifting a hand, she taps a finger against her temple.

"They're liars," Regina protests. "They'll say whatever they can to spoil this. And…and they did, didn't they?"

Emma rubs a weary hand over her face then shoves it back into her jeans pocket again. "I don't know. I mean," she continues hastily, "you've been with women, picked them up and dropped them. And why shouldn't you? You're **you** and I'm just…well…I'm **me**. As the night went on, I just couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't stop myself from thinking about the clothes you bought me – the dress you wanted me to wear. Shit, even the underwear, Regina. It all seemed planned and fake and just…"

Her voice trails off as she hears herself. Emma despises the way it sounds. She despises the way she feels. When she was in the foster system as a kid, she always used to be scared of the monsters she suspected were hiding beneath her bed. As an adult, she now knows that the monsters lurking in her own head are far bigger and far scarier than anything she could have imagined as a child. And her insecurities, so often locked away beneath the armor she dons on a daily basis, find a fissure through which to bubble to the surface. Emma hisses out a breath as though she's burned by them, and perhaps she is.

"I let them get to me," Emma says, frowning and gazing down at the polished, hardwood floor of the hallway. "And I was angry. Everywhere I looked, I could see people using other people, all for their own gain. It just sort of became really clear, you know? And you were right in the middle of it."

Now she glances up at Regina and sees the other woman staring at her, an inscrutable look on her face. Emma shrugs and leans back on her heels again, mouth turning down at the memory of how she'd been revolted by the entire roomful of people; how she'd understood at the _exact _moment of feeling it that this wasn't any kind of life for her. It was empty, devoid of a nobility she'd always striven for. It was, quite simply, heartless.

"You're right," Regina says, unwrapping her arms from around her body. She can see the horror that pales Emma's skin and shakes her head to refute the assumptions Emma's clearly leaping to. "I **am** part of that world," she qualifies. "But it's not a part of **me**. Not when it comes to you."

"I hate it," Emma states, and now Regina _does_ move forwards. Her hands slide around Emma's face and she shivers at the contact, only realizing now how much she's missed it. How much she needs it.

"It's okay to hate it," Regina murmurs. "It's okay to hate them. Hate everyone, if you like. But don't hate me. Please, Emma. I couldn't bear it."

Emma leans into Regina's touch and she sags a little. She _does_ hate it; she hates Cora and Gold for what they've done and continue to do to Regina. She hates the political landscape that paints a background to all they have and all they want. But most of all, Emma hates _herself_ for being so susceptible to Regina and the possibility of happiness. Because it's so utterly seductive that she just can't resist the idea of it, let alone the reality.

"I don't hate you," Emma says thickly, swallowing hard over the growing lump in her throat. "I feel the opposite of that. And I'm – I'm sorry I called you a – "

"I'm sorry I made you feel like one," Regina shushes her. They bend, then, foreheads touching and Emma shudders because it feels like, for all the sexual contact they've had, it's _this_ that is the most intimate.

It's terrifying; an open abyss that draws her to the edge so she can gaze over it and let the dizzying, numbing feeling overtake her. She's always stepped back in time; always stopped herself from plunging into the unknown.

Except, as Regina's fingers curl around her neck and she hears a confession of love whispered in a soft voice, Emma knows that she's already falling. And she doesn't want to stop.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	17. Chapter 17 - Outside Game

"Where did you learn to cook?" Emma asks, scraping loudly at her empty plate under Regina's watchful – and disapproving – eye. "And where did you find the time to come up with a dinner like that, never mind actually make it."

She leans back in her chair at the kitchen table and slides a palm over her stomach, cheeks puffing out in appreciation. There's a tiny smile that flickers over Regina's mouth that makes Emma feel stupidly elated by its mere presence alone. Lately, she's been trying to keep count of how many times she does that – how many times she gives Regina cause for happiness, however fleeting. It's immature and quite possibly a throwback to her childhood need to know that she matters, she thinks, but it's _something_.

"Finishing school," Regina says, dropping her spoon back into the bowl where it makes a gentle clink against the china. She laughs softly at Emma's expression and shakes her head, hair whispering over her shoulders. "My mother thought it would encourage me to be more appealing, so I spent the latter part of my teens becoming something of a culinary expert."

"Appealing?" Emma frowns, screwing up her face in distaste. "Appealing to whom, exactly? I mean, what's **that** supposed to mean?"

"It means that I ended up going to a school whose motto was _mold the girl, make the woman_," Regina says wryly. "And my mother wanted me to cultivate something that men might want. Apparently an illustrious political career just isn't what men are looking for these days," she adds, rolling her eyes sardonically.

"But a lesbian **is**?" Emma queries, only half-joking.

"I told you," Regina sighs a little, "my mother is very staunch in her belief system and me being gay just…well…didn't figure into the plans she had for me."

"So she made you learn how to cook so that if the political thing didn't take, you could always end up being a trophy wife to some rich guy, right?" Emma's voice is laden with thick disgust and she leans back in her chair for a second, draping one arm over the back of it.

"That's about the size of it, yes," Regina nods, but she avoids Emma's gaze and fiddles with the place mat on the table in front of her, pushing at it with her fingertip. "Like I said, she wanted me to be more appealing. The funny thing is that, over the years, I became distinctly unappealing to almost everyone who expressed more than a passing interest in me."

She looks up at Emma now and shrugs a little, lips twisting in regret. "So I became resentful of all the things I learned. I stopped taking pleasure in cooking. I stopped taking pleasure in a lot of things. Until – until you."

"Oh yeah," Emma murmurs, "that's me. I'm a **real** ray of sunshine." She spies Regina's cocked eyebrow and lets out a self-conscious little laugh. "I don't know that anyone's ever held me responsible for bringing good things into their life. Usually the opposite, you know?"

"No, actually, I don't," Regina sits up straight in her chair and blinks, suddenly impassive. "Are you challenging? Yes, absolutely. But that's not a bad thing. Not for a lot of people and not for me."

Emma grins, dipping her head. Regina's often blunt to the point of being rude, but there's something about her honesty that makes Emma's chest clench, heart constricting and sending tiny little thrills of sensation around her body. She shifts in the chair, leaning her elbows onto the table.

"Yeah? Well…good. And, by the way," Emma says equivocally, "**some** people happen to like what you call unappealing."

"Oh, really?" Regina hums, standing and leaning over the table to grab Emma's empty dessert bowl. She places it gently into her own and lets out another little, regretful sigh. "I know my reputation, Emma, and I also know the nickname I've been given, too. The Evil Queen? That doesn't sound particularly appealing now, does it?"

"Depends who you're asking," Emma answers adroitly, putting her hand over Regina's as it lies on the table top. Regina looks at Emma. Their eyes meet. Hold. And the tiny smile that had lingered on Regina's lips increases, widens, becomes something meaningful.

"What if I'm asking you?" Regina whispers, her eyes darkening fearfully.

"In the stories the Evil Queen likes to steal hearts, right?" Emma begins, her thumb tracking a soft line over the back of Regina's hand. Regina nods, somewhat uncertainly and Emma draws breath, her fingers closing around Regina's wrist. "Well she certainly stole mine," Emma adds gently.

There's a look that creeps across Regina's face, spreading like the warmth of a flame and bringing color to her cheeks. She slides her hand from beneath Emma's, picking up the dishes and holding them against her chest as though they're a paltry shield. A tiny, self-conscious laugh trickles over her lips and she gazes down at the blonde with something like wonderment in her eyes.

"I'm not sure making an analogy to having your heart ripped out of your chest is the slightest bit romantic," Regina says quietly.

"I'm trying to tell you that I love you, idiot," Emma hisses through her teeth and rolls her eyes. "Jesus, Regina, sometimes you're completely impossible."

Now Regina throws back her head and laughs; it's full and throaty and, Emma squirms in her chair a little, sinfully delicious.

"I thought that was **why** you love me, dear," Regina drawls gleefully, turning on her heel and sauntering away across the kitchen, throwing Emma a bright smile over her shoulder.

Nope, Emma thinks to herself as she watches Regina and takes in the provocative sway of the other woman's hips, the laughter that's still tumbling from her mouth and the marvel of how simple things can matter so very much. It's not something at all. It's _everything_.

Regina places the dishes by the sink and turns to the coffee machine, fumbling with the filter and the jar of thick, rich coffee she's been saving for a dinner like this. Her hand trembles a little as she spoons coffee into the filter. She'd chosen it especially for Emma, and it strikes her as rather ridiculous that she's still trying to impress the other woman. It's almost as though her teenage self – so stifled and anxious and just plain _bad_ at this stuff – is rising to the surface, making her do and say all the things she'd been told were forbidden. _Because who is going to love you?_ Cora had asked. _Who is going to want to live that lifestyle in public? Who is going to protect you from all the things that people will say?_

She shoves the filter a little too roughly into the coffee machine and switches it on. Over the years, Regina had begun to believe that such a person didn't exist. _Couldn't_.

But protection comes in many forms and not even Regina could have anticipated that Emma might be one of them. She'd never really needed anyone to fight her battles for her – Cora had taught her how to thrust and parry in the political world so that Regina became somewhat invulnerable. Well, Regina corrects herself silently, on the outside, anyway. Which is where it always mattered the most to her mother.

Regina never expected Emma to enter the fray on her behalf, but knowing that she _has_, willingly so, is a source of strength Regina never even knew existed. Sometimes, she can almost forget the things her mother said and imagine that, for both herself and Emma, there might be something resembling a happy ending after all is said and done.

The coffee machine begins to gurgle and Regina jumps a little then lets out a snort of dismissive laughter, shaking her head. It's a fantasy, surely: happy endings don't exist in the real world; there's only making the best of what one has and not allowing flights of fancy to take attention away from what really matters.

Only, what really matters – and always has – to Regina is happiness, the elusive feeling that's escaped her for so long. She knew that she was happy once, before she allowed her mother to convince her that it was an illusion created to give unrealistic expectations out of life.

_I'm sorry, mother_, Regina intones silently. _It looks as though you were right about me. Love is my weakness. And I couldn't be happier about it._

A pair of arms wind around her waist and Regina feels Emma's chin resting on her shoulder. She breathes a sigh of relief that Emma's here, that she still wants to be.

"The coffee's almost brewed," Regina says, her hands moving from the kitchen counter to rest lightly over Emma's, clasped together across her stomach.

"Okay," Emma turns her head and kisses Regina's neck. Her lips linger against the skin and she smiles at the silken warmth of it. "But what if, instead of having coffee, we have…something else?" She moves as she speaks, shoving her body flush against Regina's.

Regina gasps at the hardness that's pressing against her buttocks: a solid column that makes her breathing hitch and Emma chuckle against her neck.

"You're wearing it," Regina says shakily. "I didn't think you'd actually do it."

"Which is why I put it on," Emma murmurs. "I snuck off while you were busy making dinner." She thrusts forwards and tightens her hold on Regina, eliciting a gasp that makes Emma grin wolfishly and roll her hips again.

"You're very sneaky, Miss Swan," Regina says, her voice graveled. "I'm not sure I approve of you hiding things from me. You sat there all the way through dinner and never even mentioned – "

She's cut off by Emma pushing against her once more, the outline of the dildo hard and demanding against Regina's pliant flesh. Emma takes her hands from Regina's stomach and slides them downwards over the swell of the other woman's hips. Her fingertips meander across the material of Regina's skirt until they find the hem, and then Emma begins to lift it slowly. She can feel silk stockings give way to flesh as she trails her fingers up Regina's thighs, and she lets out a long, slow breath of appreciation.

"I'm not hiding anything now," Emma says, her voice low and full of intent.

"No, you're really not," Regina groans as Emma pushes up against her once more. She can feel desire licking at the tops of her legs, making them tremble a little, making her plant her hands palm down onto the kitchen counter in front of her. Regina bends, pushing backwards against Emma and smiles faintly when she hears a growl of lust from the other woman.

"So, you want to fuck me in my kitchen, do you?" Regina asks, and her smile widens as she feels Emma's breath flooding over the back of her neck. "Is that why you wore that thing?"

"I'm wearing this **thing**," Emma emphasizes the words, "because you bought it for me and because I know it makes you feel good." Her fingernails scrape over Regina's skin as she rucks up the other woman's skirt almost to her waist.

Regina reaches around and pushes her hand down between their bodies, fingers curling around the hardness of the dildo through Emma's jeans. She squeezes it and, as Emma sighs and moves her hips forwards again, can't help feeling as though it's actually a part of the other woman. Turning, Regina leans against the counter and rests her fingers on the waistband of Emma's pants. There's a gleam in her eyes that makes Emma hold her breath, only aware she's doing so when Regina begins to unfasten her jeans. By the time she draws the zipper down and peels them from Emma's hips, the blonde lets out a wavering sigh that descends into a low moan of desire.

Regina slides Emma's panties slowly – agonizingly slowly – down, unveiling the dildo that is hard and erect. She can't help sliding her fingers around it and tugging on it a little, enjoying the gasp of surprise that comes from Emma. Then, with a deliberate touch, Regina reaches between Emma's legs and slides her fingers through wetness before bringing them up in front of their eyes, fingertips glistening in the muted light of the kitchen.

"It would seem that wearing it makes **you** feel good, too," Regina murmurs. Emma opens her mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a dry click as her throat uncooperatively sticks together. She can only watch wordlessly as Regina smiles, then puts her fingers between her lips, sucking on them. Regina moans deep in her throat, eyelids fluttering shut in gratification as she leans back against the counter.

"Fuck…" Emma grinds out, unsure as to whether she's ever seen anything so evocative, so unfettered and undoubtedly arousing. Regina's tongue appears as she draws her fingers out of her mouth and she swipes it across her bottom lip before she opens her eyes and gazes at Emma. She's almost smug as she reaches down again, curling her fingers around the dildo and taking a step forwards.

"Yes," Regina hums, her voice little more than a grated whisper. "I love it when you wear this. I love it when you fuck me with it. I love it when you – "

Emma moves, pushing Regina back against the kitchen counter, grabbing at the other woman's shoulders. Their mouths crash together, tongues hungry, lips ravenous. Regina feels the hard marble edge cutting against her lower back but she doesn't care, not when Emma's pressed up against her and they're kissing like it's the first time.

Regina's hands plunge into Emma's hair and make fists, pulling hard enough to bring a faint whimper buzzing from Emma's mouth onto her own. She rolls her hips against Emma's, feeling the dildo bump against her panties and Regina sways as a wave of desire floods her entire body. She lets go of Emma's hair, bracing herself against the kitchen counter with both hands as Emma wrenches herself away and stares at Regina through hooded eyes.

"I need to see you," Regina says, reaching out and unbuttoning Emma's shirt. It slides easily off the blonde's shoulders and falls into a pool of silk on the floor. Regina makes a noise of appreciation and smooths her hands down over Emma's skin before plucking at the bra Emma's wearing, reaching around her to unclasp it, remove it and cast it to the ground.

"Emma…" Regina breathes and it sounds like a mantra, like some kind of enchantment. Emma leans towards the other woman but feels Regina's fingers on her chest, cool dots of pressure on her heated skin.

"You're so beautiful," Regina whispers, trailing her hands down over Emma's breasts, pausing to brush her thumbs over nipples that are already hard. Emma hisses at the contact and arches her back, clenching her back teeth together, biting down hard.

"So strong," Regina continues, her touch trickling between Emma's breasts, down over her taut stomach. It's only when her fingers bump against the leather harness that Regina smiles and curls her fingers around the dildo again. She leans in, puts her lips against Emma's ear and whispers, "So beautiful, my Emma."

Her voice strains with emotion she's barely holding in, and Regina feels it rise within her, an uncontrollable tide of want and desire and love and just…so much need for Emma that it thickens her throat and makes her gasp a little.

"I love the taste of you on my lips," Regina's voice glides across Emma's skin and the blonde mutters something under her breath, unintelligible words of wanting and urgency. Regina chuckles and puts her arms around Emma, turning them both until it's Emma being pushed back against the kitchen counter. She barely has time to steady herself before Regina's on her knees, gazing up the lean lines of the blonde's body until their eyes meet and Regina's lips part in a smile. Her face is shadowed and her eyes are bright, lustful, almost feverish.

Then her head bends and she's taking the dildo into her mouth, fisting it around the base and guiding it between her lips. She can hear Emma's gulps of surprise; she can smell Emma's arousal, so close to her mouth. Regina moves her head forwards, taking the dildo further into her mouth. As she pulls her head back, she can feel Emma's fingers in her hair, hand spreading out across her skull. The next time she inclines her head, Regina feels Emma push it slightly, feels Emma's hips move forwards. It's an act of utter sublimation – Regina knows that as surely as she knows she doesn't want to stop it. She wants to be on her knees before Emma like this. She wants Emma to control her. Own her.

Her head moves faster; Emma begins to thrust inside her mouth. Regina takes her hand from the base of the dildo, sliding her fingers between Emma's legs and up inside her. She can feel the zipper of Emma's jeans on the back of her hand, teeth scraping across her skin but when she curls her fingers inside Emma, Regina hears a harsh cry above her head. Emma's nails dig momentarily into her scalp and she jerks forwards with her hips, the dildo impossibly big and impossibly deep in Regina's mouth. It makes her gag and her eyes water a little, but Regina welcomes it – invites the roughness of the other woman and the way that Emma is keeping her in place, holding her steady.

"That's it," Emma bites out, her voice staccato. "That's it," she says again as Regina's fingers twist and turn inside her and Regina's thumb is on her clitoris, rubbing hard. But it's the sight as she looks down that starts a thrumming sensation deep in her belly, buzzing out across the tops of her thighs. Emma knows the dildo isn't real, and she knows that she shouldn't find the sight of Regina on her knees such a turn on, but she does. God help her, she does. The composed, self-assured Senator that Regina works so hard to present to others is on her knees, sucking Emma's cock and fucking her at the same time. And it's utterly fucking glorious.

"Oh god, Regina, I'm going to - " Emma chokes out, and she tightens her hold in Regina's hair. Regina moans but doesn't stop; she keeps working her fingers in and out of Emma and working the dildo in and out of her mouth. She feels Emma's legs tremble before she hears the blonde begin to cry aloud. Emma's knees sag a little, she falls deeper onto Regina's fingers as the spasms wrack her body. She gives a few, sharp jerks of her hips before she comes, falling and babbling and calling out for whatever clemency might be offered. Her fingers clench hard around the edge of the kitchen counter and she hangs on to the only thing keeping her upright.

Regina places her hands onto Emma's torso, spreading them out and feeling muscles tick beneath her touch. She listens to Emma's breathing, quick and harsh, then fading to a slower, more manageable pace. Regina lays her cheek against Emma's thigh, trying to catch her own breath and feeling dizzy, weak. She wraps her arms around Emma's waist and kneels there, clinging to the blonde for a few, long moments of benediction.

She lifts her head, gazing up at Emma. Head hanging down, tangles of blonde hair falling across her face, Emma's eyes look like dark hollows. The sight of her sends a thrill through Regina and she scrambles backwards, unable to take her eyes from the blonde in such a state of raw disarray.

"Fuck," Emma breathes out, still panting. "Are you trying to kill me or something?" A lazy grin spreads over her mouth and she holds out her hand to where Regina is still crumpled on the floor.

Regina takes it and allows Emma to pull her to her feet. She pushes at her hair and grimaces at how mussed and untidy it feels. Then she eyes Emma and can't help laughing softly – the blonde's pants are down around her knees and the leather harness is tightly bound across her hips. She looks like a beautiful mess and Regina can't help leaning in and planting a kiss onto Emma's cheek.

"Apparently I've already stolen your heart, so I assume that's the next step," Regina murmurs playfully, and Emma chuckles in response as they part.

"You're an asshole," she grumbles good-naturedly.

"And **you**," Regina casts out a finger and sweeps it up and down in front of Emma's body, "look a fright."

Emma shoves back her hair and glances down at herself, huffing gently in appraisal. Then she bends, grabbing something from the pocket of her jeans before shoving them and her panties down to her ankles and steps out of them, kicking the clothing to one side. She looks back up at Regina and spreads her arms, hips cocking provocatively.

"How about now?" she asks with a grin so bright and so impetuous that Regina can't help laughing a little.

"Oh, yes," she says, "much better."

"Good, because I'm not finished with you yet," Emma says. She takes a step closer to Regina and begins to unbutton the gray blouse the other woman's wearing, parting it to reveal a black lace bra. A tiny noise of want sounds in Emma's throat and she nods to herself, then takes the blouse and yanks it from Regina's shoulders, tugging it off her arms and throwing it to the floor even as Regina makes a sound of protest and her mouth falls open, appalled.

"Shush," Emma chides gently, snapping the seal on the small plastic capsule in her hand and slathering liquid up and down the length of the dildo. She grins hungrily at Regina, at the way the other woman is watching the movement of her hand, seemingly entranced. Then she reaches out, curving her hand around the back of Regina's neck and pulls her close, searching out her mouth and kissing her deeply with a forceful want that has Regina sighing against her lips.

"Turn around," Emma mumbles onto Regina's mouth. "Face the counter. Hands down." She half expects Regina to resist, but as the other woman complies, Emma feels a rush of power that's almost as potent as the desire currently rocketing around her body. She feels like she can do anything – _be_ anything – with Regina so open to her, so vulnerable and so willing to please. It's heady, intoxicating and Emma runs the nails of one hand down Regina's back until they touch the clasp of the other woman's bra, then she swiftly undoes it and plants her hand, palm down, just below Regina's neck.

When she pushes the other woman forwards, Regina grunts but says nothing, doesn't move an inch. Emma shoves Regina's skirt upwards, feeling for the scrap of material between the other woman's legs and moving it to one side. Regina's wet – _so_ wet – and Emma bites at her lower lip as she guides the dildo into the sticky heat, the tip of it making Regina gasp aloud and let out a pained moan of luxurious need. By the time it's halfway in, Regina is whining and trying not to move her hips, but it's too hard, too much and too impossible not to.

"I said, don't move," Emma growls against Regina's neck as she leans forwards and thrusts hard with her hips. The dildo goes all the way in and Regina lets out an agonized groan as Emma's breasts brush against her naked back. "Now, do you want me to fuck you or not?"

"Oh…god…" Regina grinds out as Emma begins to move in and out of her. "Yes – yes, please."

"Yes, please, **what**?" Emma demands, bending Regina over the counter and holding her down with a firm hand between her shoulder blades.

Regina trembles and her hands splay out onto the kitchen counter, fingers arching and nails scrabbling against the marble surface. "Please fuck me," she breathes, her voice barely there. "Just…Emma…**please** fuck me."

Emma moves faster now, jerking her hips back and forth as she bends Regina down and holds her there. She leans back a little, gaining more purchase and grabs Regina's hip with one hand. Even though it's not _her_ inside Regina, Emma feels every thrust as though it were flesh on flesh. Flesh _in_ flesh. A hum of sensation begins to build at the base of her spine and she feels the tension in her thighs: tight and wavering and leading her towards another climax. She grits her teeth and increases her efforts, slamming into Regina so hard that she hears the slap of her body on the other woman's buttocks. Somehow, that only seems to make things more visceral, more real.

Regina's cheek is pressed against the cool marble of the kitchen counter and she closes her eyes, giving herself over entirely to the sensation of the dildo sliding in and out of her. It felt cold at first, but now it feels like liquid heat, slipping so easily inside her and then back out again. She can feel Emma's body bumping and pushing against her own and it's inconceivable that it should feel so good, so right. There's a safety to Emma's grasp on her that Regina can't quite define; all she knows is that when Emma touches her, she knows there's a part of the world – and someone in it – who needs her for no other reason than she is, simply, _her_. As the knowledge slips through her brain, a lump forms in Regina's throat because Emma is so pure and the emotion she offers to Regina is without constraint. The feeling tumbles through her body, falling down to where she's tingling and throbbing and _oh_, she wants to cry out as Emma pounds into her because it's overwhelming and right in all the ways she'd been told were wrong.

But there's nothing wrong about this, Regina thinks, as she hears Emma's breathing, harsh and labored, above her head. There's nothing wrong about simply relinquishing control and giving oneself over to sensation instead of thought, process, decision. Mentally, Regina throws those things aside as she focuses only on Emma's fingers digging into her flesh; Emma's body behind her own; Emma's breath on her shoulder and the half-choked words of entreaty that she knows are meant only for her, always.

Regina closes her eyes, cheek pressed to the kitchen counter and body bent over it under Emma's strong hands. She's gasping for breath now, matching Emma's movements, her body pushing back onto the dildo and her hands clawing at the counter top. Emma reaches around her, fingertips and thumbs pinching and twisting at her nipples. Twin bolts of pleasure and pain intermingle and shoot down through Regina's entire body, amplifying and exacerbating the throbbing between her legs. She can't hold on. She can't contain it. And even as Emma bends over her and whispers something into her ear, Regina can't hear it or even acknowledge anything other than the insatiable need her body has for climax, for recompense, for anything that might prove she's worthy of this.

Her orgasm hits silently, opening Regina's mouth wide and she stiffens for a second, poised on the brink before her body begins to collapse against Emma's. She shudders, violent tremors shaking her back and finally, she cries out in a long, waning wail of submission. Emma's arms snake around her and Regina knows she's safe, she's wanted. She knows that Emma will always be there to catch her when she falls.

So she does.

XxxXxxXxxXxx

Regina finishes combing her wet hair and then sits looking at herself in the mirror. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup and there's a glow to her cheeks that she knows hasn't come from the shower, even if Emma insisted on telling her – once again – that she now knows why the shower in her own apartment sucks because it's clear that Regina's stealing water pressure from the entire district.

She smiles at her own reflection and replaces the comb onto the vanity table, looking behind her as Emma saunters into the bedroom, toweling her hair.

"That shower, though," she says, tucking the towel around her body in a little more firmly.

"Indeed," Regina says, rolling her eyes just enough to get a smirk from Emma as she throws herself onto the bed, her towel flying open. "If you like it that much, perhaps you should move in so you can have one every day."

The words are out of her mouth before she realizes what she's said, and a stricken expression floods her features as she rises from the stool and makes her way over to the bed. By the time she sinks down onto it, Emma's already blinking in alarm and laughing in that surprised, dismissive way she has.

"Right," Emma says, pushing her wet hair over her shoulder where it lands with a slap onto her back. "You and me, living together. We've been dating for a few months, Regina. Are you trying to be the best lesbian ever and u-haul us already?"

Her tone is jovial, but Regina frowns and picks at the coverlet on the bed. "We've been dating for long enough for me to know how I feel about you," she says quietly. "And don't tell me you haven't thought about where this is going."

She feels Emma's fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head so that when she looks up, it's into a pair of clear, green eyes that are looking at her with not a little wonderment. But there's also a smile on Emma's face: gentle and loving and it's that, more than anything else, that helps to quell the anxiety rising up in Regina's chest.

"Of course I've thought about it," Emma says gently. "I mean, that's normal, right? But do you honestly think that we're gonna get the white picket fence and little house and kids and dogs and everything else?"

"**Kids**?" Regina echoes, eyes widening. "You want kids? And dogs?"

Emma laughs and shrugs, her hand dropping from Regina's chin. "Sure," she says casually. "Why not? Isn't that what we're supposed to aspire to?"

"I don't **know** what we're supposed to aspire to," Regina answers, a trace of melancholy working its way around her eyes. "My mother always told me what I needed to aspire to and I suppose what I wanted was to please her. It's why I became such a hardass," she adds, with a glimmer of a smile.

"Okay, well you can quit doing that, then," Emma says sternly, leaning back on the bed and propping herself up on her elbows. "Every time we talk about something to do with what you want, your mother creeps into the conversation. **Every** time, Regina."

"She's been a huge influence on my life," Regina says pertly, and Emma groans inwardly at how the justification is there, how it manages to derail any and all discussion of Cora Mills and what she's done to Regina.

"No kidding," Emma mutters, letting out a grating sigh.

"I know you can't understand it," Regina tells her, "but she – my mother told me I could never have this." As Emma turns her head and gazes at her in consternation, Regina nods firmly. "You, me, us, I mean. My mother told me that I couldn't have it all. That I had to choose."

"Your mother's full of shit," Emma mumbles, ignoring the glare that Regina sends her way. She stretches on the bed, dropping back onto it and reaching up with her arms until her hands press against the headboard. "She **is**, Regina. The only choice you ever have to make is to do what's best for **you**. Not **her**. I know you love the politicking and all, but I also know that you feel like you've missed out. And that's on her, not you. **She** made you this way."

Regina takes a shaky breath and forces a smile onto her lips. "This way? The Evil Queen? Is that all I am to people?"

"Of course not," Emma says slowly. "But she forced you to be closed off from things that make you happy. She still would if she got her own way. But she's convinced she wants better for you than anyone else can offer – better for you than I certainly can, that's for sure. She pretty much said so at that stupid fundraiser."

"You've been the catalyst for a lot of change in my life," Regina says, as Emma leans up onto one elbow. "My mother doesn't much like change unless it goes in her favor."

"And she's a staunch Republican, who'd have thought?" Emma rolls her eyes and groans. But she can see Regina's worried face at her shoulder, can feel the waves of distress coming off the other woman every time her mother's mentioned or talked about or, Emma reasons silently, _not_ talked about.

She turns to Regina and strokes her hand down the other woman's arm in what she dearly hopes is a comforting enough gesture because, honestly, she's _way_ out of her depth with this. She doesn't know a thing about how families really work – only what she's gleaned from the mistakes and misdemeanors of her own upbringing. But she can recognize the look of an abused child when she sees it; she can hear the words, too, that children carry into adulthood to excuse and forgive their abusers. And god knows, Emma doesn't want to go up against Cora Mills and her kind, but her heart beats strongly enough for Regina to know that she wants to protect and nurture the woman any way she can.

"Look," Emma finally says, "what your mom did to you was wrong, Regina. Sure, you've got this great career and she taught you a lot, so did Gold." Emma notices how Regina flinches at the sound of his name and she clenches her teeth because she's pretty sure that the story Regina's told her isn't the full tale, not by a long shot.

"But people like them use people like you. You're not a bad person. You've just been used badly. And you can say that woman is your mother until the end of time but it ain't gonna change the fact that she abused you."

The second she says the word, Regina pulls away from her touch, brow furrowed and lip curled in distaste. Emma sighs a little and waits. Because waiting, she knows, is sometimes what's necessary. Sometimes it takes a while for the truth of a situation to surface, especially for a woman like Regina, who's so trapped in the mire of it all that she can barely see the surface.

"She didn't – " Regina begins, but she can't finish her thought. Instead, she pushes out her bottom lip and looks for all the world like a recalcitrant teenager. She takes a breath; tries again. "It's not the same as what happened to you," she tells Emma in a solemn tone. "I can't compare it with what you went through and I shouldn't."

"That doesn't mean it didn't hurt you, though," Emma insists. "It doesn't mean it didn't change you in ways that have fundamentally affected you for the rest of your life. What that woman did to you was abusive, Regina. And just because she sugar-coated it with expensive schools and a nice house or whatever, doesn't make it any less so. Can't you see that? I mean, can't you understand what she's done?"

There's a long silence during which Regina merely gazes at Emma and her eyes are so dark, so pained and so unutterably sad that Emma scoots forwards on the bed, putting her hand onto Regina's hip. They both need the contact but maybe today, Emma thinks, Regina needs it the most. She needs to feel loved and valued. Because a child who is constantly rejected takes that feeling and that burden into adulthood, and it's made Regina reject anything that might come close to offering her heart a salve.

Until now.

"I didn't know," Regina says, and her gaze flickers downwards, the tops of her cheeks flushing pink with shame. "I didn't know that's what it was. She's my mother. I just thought she was doing what…what all mothers do, I suppose."

"That's not what all mothers do," Emma says firmly, then laughs and rolls her eyes. "But what do I know, right?"

Regina looks up, stares at Emma then puts her palm against the other woman's cheek. "Emma, you know more than you give yourself credit for. More than **I've** given you credit for and I'm – I'm sorry for that."

She leans in to kiss Emma on the mouth and lingers a little because where there's sweetness, there's also bitterness and Regina knows exactly how that feels. She understands how her own failings have convinced her that a mother's love is precious at any expense and that _her_ love is inadequate by comparison. And in the pit of her stomach there's anger, too, coiled like a snake ready to strike.

"Besides," Regina murmurs, a wry smile on her mouth as she draws back on the bed, "when you've got your house and kids and dogs, you can put all that expertise to good use."

Emma chuckles and now it's her turn to flush a little. "Uh huh. You know none of that works without someone to help you though, right?"

Regina presses a hand to her chest and pretends to swoon, falling backwards on the bed. "Why, Miss Swan, are you proposing to me?"

"I'm proposing that you should stop being so naked in front of me before I make that shower we just had pretty pointless," Emma says lightly, but she avoids Regina's gaze and instead looks down the length of the other woman's body to where her hand is still resting on Regina's hip. Then she frowns, leans in and stares more intently.

"Shit," Emma exclaims. "Shit, shit, shit." She points to a bruise forming on Regina's skin and then snatches her hand away, curling it into a fist against her chest.

"It's a bruise, so what?" Regina glances down at it and then back at Emma.

"I did that," Emma grunts. "Before, in the kitchen. I was too rough with you." Her voice comes in little, confessional spurts and she shakes her head, cringing away from Regina. "And here's me just going on about how badly your mother treated you."

The sound of Regina's laughter makes her start and Emma looks up to see Regina beaming at her, eyes sparkling.

"Emma, we both know that's not the same thing at **all**," Regina says gently, and she takes Emma's hand and places it back on her hip, flattening it out over the bruise. "What happened in the kitchen was…"

She moves Emma's hand up over her body, into the dip of her waist and then across her ribs until it hits the swell of her breast. Emma's breathing hitches a little and Regina moves in a little closer. "You were magnificent," she says in a low voice. "**It** was magnificent and if you think you've done something bad, you couldn't be more wrong. You don't want to hurt me, not even when you," she laughs softly, "hurt me. Which you haven't."

"You're sure?" Emma asks, brow crinkling. "I don't ever want to – "

"I know," Regina shushes her. "But the sex in the kitchen? I wouldn't mind if that happened again."

Emma begins to smile, relieved. Then Regina bends her head and kisses her before humming in muted laughter. "After all, we have to do something while we're waiting for the kids and dogs and white picket fence, don't we?"

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	18. Chapter 18 - Interlude

**A/N:** This interlude is set at some point during the first few chapters. Or thereabouts. Anyway – it's a little flashback, so to speak. You see, when one of your favourite writers suggests you write a little something in the shower, there's not much you can do to resist. So, in an effort to please, this is Emma, Regina, a shower and some idle, early-relationship chit-chat in the PS-verse.

The bathroom is already humid and the shower is pounding streams of hot water down onto Regina's shoulders. She stands for a minute, lifting her face up into the water and closing her eyes. Her body is still humming gently from spending the night – and early morning – in Emma's arms and the water amplifies the sensation, trickling around her veins and heating them with the memory of what it feels like to be touched, owned, taken. By the time her hair is wet, plastered against her scalp, Regina is smiling.

Opening her eyes, Regina turns in the shower cubicle. It's huge – a giant glass compartment in the corner of her lavish bathroom. It's one of the comforts of her home that Regina takes great pride in; one of the places where she does some of her best strategizing. When the water is thrumming down around her, on her, she feels at peace. Protected, even.

But Regina's starting to feel that way a lot of the time now. She's always indulged in her solitude, following her mother's guidance to the letter and building invisible barriers strong enough to keep even the most ardent of suitors at bay. They were all bumbling men her mother chose for her, anyway. Men for whom Regina's stoicism and impenetrable character proved a challenge they all thought they could conquer.

None of them ever did. Not even Robin, for whom Regina still holds great affection.

No; she smiles again and lets out a tiny huff of laughter. No _man_ has ever been able to touch her the way Emma does.

_No woman, either_, Regina reminds herself, reaching for the shower gel that sits on a glass shelf right in front of her eyes. She pours some into the palm of her hand, snapping the cap back on and replacing the gel onto the shelf. And she laughs again as she smooths the liquid up and down her arms, her voice echoing in the glass box.

"Something funny?"

Emma's voice intrudes over the hiss of the water in the shower, and she looms up outside the glass door: an amorphous pink blob, distorted by the steam and the condensation on the door's surface. She lingers outside the shower for a second before grasping the handle, twisting it, and entering the shower cubicle. Cocking her head onto one side, Emma stares at Regina, allowing her gaze to rake up and down the other woman's body in a decidedly lascivious manner. To her credit, Regina is brazen, and stands beneath the jets of water with her hands on her hips, staring right back.

"I was just thinking about you, that's all," Regina answers, as Emma shivers a little and draws closer to the streams of hot water. And the naked body beneath them.

"And that makes you laugh?" Emma muses, holding out her hands to catch some droplets of water. "Uh, thanks?"

"Don't be ridiculous, dear," Regina says, her voice echoing from the glass walls of the shower. "I know you may find this hard to believe, but I'm happy. And I hear that laughing when happy is something people do."

"Crazy people laugh out loud when they're alone," Emma mutters, as Regina's hands slide across her hips, arms winding around her waist to pull her close. She bumps up against Regina's body and can't help the slow smile that creeps over her mouth.

Regina hums and draws Emma close enough to kiss. "But I'm **not** alone, Emma," she says quietly, her voice almost swallowed by the sound of the water.

"Yeah?" Emma says, dipping her head for another kiss.

"Yes," Regina asserts firmly, then turns around so that Emma is directly underneath the shower nozzle. She can't help smirking as the blonde squeals, instantly covered in hot water and drenched within seconds.

"Jesus Christ!" Emma splutters, shoving at her wet hair. "They were right, you know," she says, lip curling with ire she doesn't really feel.

"And who's that, dear?" Regina drawls provocatively.

"All those people who call you The Evil Queen," Emma grunts, eyeing Regina with faintly amused reprove. "That was just plain...evil!"

"Oh, **was** it now?" Regina says, gaze glinting wickedly. "You have **been** in a shower before, haven't you, Emma? The entire purpose is to get wet." She leans forwards, nose crinkling and voice dropping in condescension.

Emma's hand darts out and grabs Regina around the wrist, tugging the other woman up against her: thighs, hips, torso, breasts bumping together and eliciting a little gasp from Regina that makes Emma smile.

"How wet are **you**, Your Majesty?" Emma asks in a husked tone. She bends her head and tastes the base of Regina's neck, tongue dipping into the hollow there before it moves outwards, following the line of Regina's clavicle.

Regina's head lolls back a little before she sucks in a breath under the sprinkling water drops falling on her face. Then she plants her hands onto Emma's chest and pushes so that they part. Emma's brow rises and she views Regina with amused reprove, but Regina merely rolls her eyes and reaches for the shower gel and sponge, liberally dousing the latter with the former. She reaches out and drags the sponge across Emma's shoulders, down her arm, holding out her fingers before the sponge travels back up the inside across more sensitive skin. Then Regina turns Emma slightly, beginning the same process with her other arm.

"You're far too impertinent," Regina comments with a sidelong glance at the blonde. "And I'm not sure whether I like it."

"Oh, I think you **do** like it," Emma says, pleased to hear the dismissive snort that comes from Regina. Sometimes confessions fall from their lips like the unstoppable torrent raining down on their heads. And then, sometimes, they're tight-lipped; unwilling to give anything away lest it damn them. It's a dance they do, back and forth. And now that they're starting to learn one another's rhythm, it seems like something worth perfecting, Emma thinks.

"See? That's what I mean," Regina says, yanking a little too hard at Emma's arm and scrubbing rather too deeply with the sponge. As the blonde makes a noise of protestation, Regina smiles beatifically at Emma, then turns her attention back to the task at hand. "You're very sure of yourself, Miss Swan."

"Confidence is attractive," Emma states, as Regina turns her again and begins scrubbing at her back with the sponge, white soapy suds crawling over her shoulder and slipping down towards her breasts.

"Yes, you do seem very confident when it comes to us."

"I'm not the only one," Emma groans as Regina abandons the sponge and begins massaging her soapy skin. "You just called us an **us**."

Regina's thumbs dig deeply into the muscles at the base of Emma's neck, making her gasp. She didn't even know they were tight, and she lets out a grunt of pained appreciation at Regina's deceptive strength. Regina steps up behind Emma, curving her arms around the blonde's waist and thrusting her hands, slick with soap, down over Emma's belly. As they move lower, fingers delving into the cleft between Emma's legs, Regina's mouth is at Emma's ear and her breath tickles the damp skin just beneath it.

"Is that what we are?" Regina whispers, her voice picking up resonant sibilance from the water hissing down around them.

Emma's head falls against Regina's shoulder as those fingers slide lower then dip inside and brush over the sensitive peak of her clitoris. She feels Regina's arm tighten a little, holding her close against the other woman's body: warm and wet and inviting. For all the water pounding down over every inch of their skin, Emma's mouth suddenly feels dry, her throat uncooperative. Regina's fingertips circle around her clitoris, sending shock waves of sensation hurtling down Emma's legs and she buckles a little, leaning back against Regina.

"Regina," Emma forces out in a broken voice, "I haven't slept with anyone else since you and I – "

"Neither have I," Regina cuts in, and pushes her hips forwards against Emma's buttocks. "I don't make a habit of sleeping around."

"Is that because you're afraid someone might find out, or because you're afraid that **I** will?" Emma breathes out, moving in a slow circle against Regina's body. She hears a chuckle against her neck, muffled as Regina presses her mouth against the flesh that slopes down towards her shoulder.

"The only thing I'm afraid of," Regina says in a low tone, "is that the water's going to run cold before we're finished in here." She swirls her fingers around Emma's clitoris once again and feels a flood of arousal between her own legs as the blonde moans loudly and mutters Regina's name. Regina begins to rub, gently at first and then with increasing pressure. Emma's body fits so perfectly against her own and she's so _willing_ and _hungry_ that Regina is filled with a primal, instinctive sway towards her. She begins to rub with more force, the tips of her fingers sliding on and around Emma's hardened clitoris until the blonde is whining on every exhale and reaching back around their bodies to dig her fingers into Regina's pliant flesh.

Regina's mouth is on her shoulder, sucking with her lips, nipping with her teeth. As Emma strains against the other woman, all she can feel is the incessant water on her body, the endless circles Regina is making with her fingers and the throbbing between her legs that makes her yearn for climax. Need it. She wants to say something – something that will tell Regina how she feels, what she wants, what she's _always_ wanted. But even as her lips open, Emma hears herself groan as she bends towards Regina's fingers and the searing touch that's driving her wild. Then there are teeth on her shoulder: the fine, razor-sharp pain as Regina bites down on flesh and Emma's synapses flicker, then explode. She sucks in a lungful of air, holds it and waits until she simply can't bear it any longer, until her entire body feels as though it will discorporate from sheer joy. Then it all rushes out in a long, protracted stream that's layered with a guttural moan coming, it seems, from every single part of her.

The arm around her waist is firm, steady. Regina's body behind her own is present and warm and keeps Emma upright until her chest stops heaving and she can open her eyes. She reaches out, planting her palms against the wet tiles in front of her, head hanging down and hair heavy with water. She just needs to catch her breath. She just needs to slow her heartrate. She just needs…she _needs_… And now she's awakened such a long-smothered craving within herself, Emma isn't sure she'll ever be sated.

When she straightens and turns around, Regina is looking at her with an expression that Emma can't quite read. Her dark gaze is almost black and, Emma frowns, tinged around the edges with what looks like fear. Then, Regina blinks and it's gone. She raises her face to the water, letting it splash down on her hair and skin.

"I don't sleep around either," Emma finally says, and Regina smooths back her wet hair so that it looks like onyx, shining under the water. "In case you were wondering," she adds.

One of Regina's eyebrows arches and she looks on the verge of delivering what Emma is certain to be a cutting remark. Emma shrugs and smiles in the hopes of warding it off, but Regina merely presses her lips together in a hard line and instead reaches past Emma's head for the shampoo.

"I wasn't," she says smartly, but busies herself with rubbing shampoo into her hair and closes her eyes so that Emma doesn't have to see the lie within them.

"Okay," Emma half-laughs, and grasps Regina's wrists, pulling her hands from the soapy mound that is her hair. "But I don't."

She plunges her fingers into Regina's shampoo-covered hair, scraping her nails over the other woman's scalp and massaging the soap in with strong, capable fingers. Regina sighs and lets Emma turn her around so that now she's leaning back against the blonde. She sinks against Emma's body, head rolling with every sweep of Emma's fingers. It's horribly intimate – almost painfully so, and Regina hears warning bells ringing at the back of her mind about how dangerous it is to allow someone this sort of liberty. She's always rewarded the silence of her sexual partners – not that there have been many – with something personal. Whether it was an expensive dinner, or new clothes, or even a word in the ear of someone influential, Regina always paid her dues and expected secrecy in return.

But, with Emma, she's already crossed that carefully drawn line scored deep within her psyche after so many years of being told this is wrong and no lifestyle for a politician. She's already broken the firmly set rules she's lived by; rules that have helped her to survive. And there's a part of her, swaying with the movement of Emma's hands in her hair, that doesn't really care.

"Relax," Emma whispers against Regina's ear, and guides the other woman back under the center of the water jets so that she can rinse her hair.

"This is about as relaxed as I get," Regina says in a droll voice, and lets out a contented sigh as Emma's fingers work their way through her wet hair. "Although my showers aren't usually this long or this…**arduous**."

"Well, I figured we'd better get you clean before the hot water runs out," Emma says, watching as white suds spin around their feet then disappear down the plughole.

"Oh, **that**," Regina says, smiling wickedly. "I may have stretched the truth a little when talking about **exactly** how much hot water is available."

Emma's lips twist wryly as Regina draws closer to her, reaching up and pushing weighty locks of wet hair back over Emma's shoulder. Then she takes one of Emma's hands and presses it down between their bodies to where Regina is aching, wet, wanting.

"I see," Emma murmurs. "All hot, all the time."

Regina chuckles deep in her throat, then makes a noise of disappointment as Emma tugs her hand away and leans back, reaching for the shampoo and thrusting the bottle towards Regina.

"My turn," she grins widely and can't help laughing at the scowl that creeps over Regina's features even as the woman begins to lather up her hair. She braces herself against the wall of the shower cubicle and lets out a few moans of delicious pleasure as Regina's fingers work their way across her scalp…then they stop.

"Emma?"

"Mm-hm?"

"I did wonder. About you."

There's a little silence as Emma ponders the tone of Regina's voice, half-wanting to open her eyes and half-knowing that, should she do so, Regina's honesty might waver as much as her voice just did. So she merely lifts her hands, trailing her fingers up the lines of Regina's arms and then squeezes gently.

"I know," she says. "And now you don't have to."

XxxXxxXxxXxx


	19. Chapter 19 - Devolution

**Chapter 19 – Devolution**

**A/N: This chapter takes the form of a series of voicemail messages.**

**Wednesday: 15.00 – from Emma**

Hey, it's me. Just checking in. Sorry I had to run the other day – I was late for an assignment and even though it might not be the cutting edge of political reporting, I have to go where they send me. This freelancing gig isn't as great as I thought it would be. I mean, who the hell cares whether the ribbon some smalltown Mayor cuts at the opening of a new library is green or blue? **Nobody**, that's who. But there I was anyway, pretending like I gave a flying – _[pause]_ **What**? Shit! Regina. I have to go. Some Dudley Do-Right cop is about to put a ticket on my bug. Catch you later.

**Wednesday: 19.00 – from EQ**

I just got your message. I do hope you realize that a parking ticket on that dreadful yellow monstrosity you call a car would only improve it, cosmetically speaking. It's really highly irritating that you've made me fond of that thing by association. And… _[pause]_ I miss you.

**Wednesday: 21.22 – from Emma**

When you say you miss me, are you talking about how we're never in the same place at the same time these days or something else, huh? Listen, I have to go out of town for a day or so. I'm following up a lead on something – can't tell you what, though. Apparently journalists **do** have integrity. Who knew? _[laughter]_ And yes, I'll be driving. In the bug. You might hate it but let me remind you of a certain time not so long ago when you didn't hate it at all. You also didn't hate what I was **doing** to you in the bug, either. _[sigh]_ I wish I could just… _[long pause] _ Okay, I'm bordering on pathetically needy right now so I'm just going to wish you goodnight and...goodnight.

**Thursday: 06.30 – from EQ**

Emma, it's Regina. I hope your secret mission is going well, although I suspect your girlfriend would worry less if you told her where you were headed instead of all this cloak and dagger stuff. And if we're going to be specific about what happened and when in your car, might I remind you that I'd had two glasses of red wine on an empty stomach and you were **extraordinarily** handsy. None of which in any way reduces my inherent dislike of your awful car. It was convenient, that's all. And not **entirely** unenjoyable. _[pause] _ Please take care of yourself when you're…wherever you are, won't you? I'd like you back in one piece. I also quite like you pathetically needy.

**Thursday: 19.47 – from Emma**

Hey, I said **bordering** on pathetically needy. I'm not there quite yet. Listen, I know you're busy with the campaigning and all but…do you think there's going to be a time in the next week that we might actually have a conversation instead of playing phone tag like this? I have some news. _[pause]_ Kinda. I'll tell you all about it if we ever get to talk again. I should probably go - I'm meeting up with an old friend for dinner tonight and she doesn't like to be kept waiting. In fact, she reminds me a lot of you and I'm not entirely sure that's a good thing. Still…try to get some rest tonight, okay? I know that when you get on an election jag you don't sleep or eat or anything. I don't want to have to lay down the law when I get back.

**Thursday: 22.56 – from EQ**

Lay down the law? **You**? Emma, dear, you break more rules than you keep. _[laughter]_ Still, there's a part of me that would quite enjoy seeing that, I suspect. And not for the reasons you think. You're probably still at dinner with your old friend._ [pause]_ I don't need to be worried about that, do I? I mean – I'm **not**, of course. _[long pause]_ And it appears I'm once again saying things to you that I shouldn't after one glass of scotch too many. That's probably my cue to go to bed, then. Goodnight, dear.

**Friday: 02.06 – from Emma**

Hey, I hope you're asleep – it's late. Listen, you don't have to be worried about **anything**, and that includes old friends. I spent most of the evening talking about you, anyway. I'm surprised your politician's ears weren't burning. Don't worry, it was all good stuff. So, you know, I lied. _[laughter]_ Listen, the reason I met up with Jen last night was kind of related to business, not pleasure. But I'll talk to you about that when I see you. Which I can't wait to do, by the way. Among **other** things. _[long pause]_ Okay then. _[heavy sigh] _ I really did talk about you all night. So I guess I'm full blown pathetically needy now. Great. I'm choosing to blame **you** for this, by the way.

**Friday: 07.30 – from EQ**

I was indeed asleep when you called. I'm not usually awake at 2am unless it's your doing, dear, as well you know. Now I'm intrigued as to the nature of your tryst last night. Oh – and while we're talking about last night, my mother called me. She wanted to congratulate me on how I'm running my campaign. She also wanted to let me know where I'm going wrong, so I suppose I shouldn't get too excited about the fact that it's the first time she's spoken to me in months. She wants to meet for dinner which you do **not** have to attend and nobody would blame you if you didn't. I certainly won't. But it's…interesting. That she wants to, I mean. I'm going to take it as a sign that perhaps I'm impressing her at last. _ [laughter]_ Which makes **both** of us pathetically needy, doesn't it? _[long pause – a burst of background noise]_ Emma, I have to go. I'm attending a brunch with potential contributors and I'm really going to need their financial support if I'm to make it to the finish line somewhat intact. It looks like I'll be returning home on Tuesday, if you're free.

**Friday: 11.59 – from Emma**

Tuesday? Eh… _[heavy sigh]_ I guess it's better than not seeing you at all. And the **only** call you should be getting from your mother is one where she begs for your forgiveness which you don't have to give her, **ever**. She's so passive aggressive, congratulating you then criticizing you. I bet she honestly thinks she's helping you, doesn't she? That abusive, manipulative piece of… _[long pause]_ You can't see her, Regina. She's no good for you.

**Friday: 18.09 – from EQ**

I just got your message – why don't you tell me how you really feel about my mother, dear? _[low laughter]_ Look, nobody is more aware of her games than I am, alright? I know exactly who she is and what she's capable of. _ [pause]_ But she's still my mother and I have to hope that this is her attempt at reconciliation. I'm trying not to judge too hastily, Emma. It would be immensely helpful if you would attempt to do the same.

**Saturday: 11.33 – from Emma**

Did you get my texts? Regina, if you're pissed at me then **tell** me. Don't go all silent and stony. That's the old you, remember? And you promised we'd talk about shit that happens rather than bottling it up which is…not good. For **either** of us. So, here I am. Ready to talk. Whenever you want to. _[long pause]_ I'm sorry, okay?

**Saturday: 16.03 – from Emma**

Okay, so I figured you're actually full-on ignoring me now so I'm just going to keep leaving messages because, honestly, I'm not done talking yet. And if this is the only way we get to do that before I'm standing on your porch and you're refusing to let me in then – then I'm going to do it as much as I damn well can, okay? I don't know if you've noticed, Regina, but I **love** you and that means I give an actual shit about whether you're happy or not. If someone threatens that then I'm likely to threaten **them**, you know? _[long pause]_ Listen, I… _[long pause]_ You know what? Never mind.

**Saturday: 20.18 – from Emma**

Hi there, my name's Emma Swan. I'm an idiot. When I was in foster care they used to tell me that I spoke out of turn all the time. I guess I'm still doing that. I'm…I'm sorry.

**Saturday: 23.44 – from EQ**

Hello, Miss Swan. This is Senator Regina Mills speaking. I'm sorry I've been unable to respond to any of your voicemails, text messages and the three emails you sent me. It appears that there are actually places in Maine that have zero cellphone reception and apparently I visited all of them over the last 24 hours. _[long pause] _ Emma, don't apologize. My mother is…well, she would probably be ecstatic that we're fighting over her. So let's not. _[pause]_ I'll be so glad when this leg of the campaign is over. I want to be in my own bed again. _[pause]_ Just so you know, I'm expecting you to be there with me, Emma.

**Sunday: 10.32 – from Emma**

Guilty secret. When you call me Miss Swan it's both utterly patronizing and also a complete turn-on.

**Sunday: 11.59 - EQ**

How I've missed the delicacy of your flirtations, Miss Swan.

**Monday: 01.46 – from Emma**

At the risk of turning into one of those women who makes horribly honest phone calls after they've spent the evening alone with only a bottle of red wine for company… _[pause]_ I miss things about you and me together that ain't anywhere near delicate. I can't wait to show you. _[heavy sigh]_ I also hate you for not being here right now. Except I don't. But I do. Shit, I'm rambling now. This has to stop.

**Monday: 06.00 – from EQ**

I have a day of it today so it's entirely possible I won't be in contact for the next 24 hours. Is it ridiculous that I rather enjoyed your ramblings? I feel like it's ridiculous. As though we're a pair of silly teenagers – and I wasn't silly even when I **was** a teenager. I don't **do** silly. And yet, here I am, counting down the hours until I can be home with you. _[long pause]_ By the way, I'm having dinner with mother tonight. Please don't worry. Why don't you tell me about your news instead? I don't think I can wait until tomorrow evening.

**Monday: 12.00 – from Emma**

Way to bury the lead, Regina. Dinner with Cora Mills? I'm trying really hard to be the supportive girlfriend here but that woman makes it almost impossible. _[heavy sigh]_ Just be careful, okay? I don't trust her and neither should you. _[pause]_ Anyway, my news…my friend Jen works in publishing and… _[laughter]_ It's dumb, really, but she wants to collaborate on a book with me. We went to school together and always talked about being writers and I guess…I guess now we are. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. You'll probably laugh at the story we've come up with.

**Monday: 18.00 – from Emma**

Good luck with your mom. Just thought I'd tell you. And uh… _[pause]_ Yeah, well. Love you.

**Monday: 20.22 – from Emma**

I think I just wrote the first paragraph of my book. _[long pause]_ It feels pretty good.

XxxXxxXxxXxx


End file.
